


Cups of Coffee

by toastedbagels



Category: Law & Order: SVU, SVU
Genre: Angst, Attempted Murder, Attempted Sexual Assault, Bakery and Coffee Shop, Blood and Gore, Case Fic, Character Death, Cop!Carisi, Court Drama, Dirty Talk, Drinking, F/M, Fingerfucking, First Date, Fluff, Food, Friendship, Hostage Situations, Injury, Interrogation, Investigations, Kidnapping, Lawyers, Lots of Cop Talk, Lots of Lawyer Talk, Medical, Murder, Murder Mystery, Mutual Pining, Oral Sex, Post Mortem Examinations, Post-Season/Series 16, Praise Kink, Rough Sex, Smoking, Smut, Violence, Voyeurism, Waitress!Reader
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-26
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:27:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 12
Words: 69,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26091865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toastedbagels/pseuds/toastedbagels
Summary: He knows there’s some sort of irony in his lust for donuts as a cop, but he reasons that the freshly powdered cannolis right beside it were a sign from his ancestors to indulge.And that’s when he spots you.Blue eyes look up from the everything bagel that he knows he’ll have to tell an ornery pregnant Bella about, and watches your pretty face carefully lick the edge of your pinkie free of pink frosting and sprinkles. With your head tilted back, lashes blinking closed with delight, he was suddenly enlightened on what it would be like to be exceptionally hungry and a little bit horny at the same time.
Relationships: Dominick "Sonny" Carisi Jr./Reader, Dominick "Sonny" Carisi Jr./You
Comments: 75
Kudos: 94





	1. Cream & Sugar

**Author's Note:**

> hi there i'm bagels ♥ i've watched svu my entire got damn life and i've been home rewatching the series so this is my little bundle of joy. i'm sliding it into season 17 with cop!carisi because he is a gift and we have to cherish him before the ada office takes him away. thank you for coming to my ted talk, enjoy.
> 
> p.s. just to be safe, despite the nature of the show, if you're uncomfortable with mentions of violence and rape, please be attentive of chapter tags.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You catch Carisi's attention.

* * *

**BETTER BATTER DINER & BAKERY  
** **6344 LIMBAUGH AVENUE  
** **MANHATTAN, NEW YORK  
** **FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 1ST**

* * *

Dominick swallows down hard, salivating at the retro pink display glass lit up just to his right. Focusing on Tutuola’s approach at questioning the pastry chef was becoming more and more difficult as the freshly stuffed eclairs nearly take him off his feet. Having skipped breakfast, and, as he blinks his gaze from the glass case to his wrist watch, _lunch_ , his gut was begging him for relief.

“. . . looking in on a lead. One of our open cases . . .” Fin continues at the register. Dominick can’t seem to help himself: he peeks back at where a young baker puts fresh honey glazed croissants on a rotating tray. He knows there’s some sort of irony in his lust for donuts as a cop, but he reasons that the freshly powdered cannolis right beside it were a sign from his ancestors to indulge.

And that’s when he spots you. 

Blue eyes look up from the everything bagel that he knows he’ll have to tell an ornery pregnant Bella about, and watches your pretty face carefully lick the edge of your pinkie free of pink frosting and sprinkles. With your head tilted back, lashes blinking closed with delight, he was suddenly enlightened on what it would be like to be exceptionally hungry _and_ a little bit horny at the same time.

You get busted and mildly scolded with a nudge by one of your coworkers behind Fin. But you both start giggling too, and just as soon as he saw you, you were gone again behind a flapping two way door to wash your hands. 

“— oh yeah. Saw that guy a couple nights ago. Wednesday, I think.”

The chef’s blasé confession tears Dominick’s concentration back to the present situation.

Fin shoots him a look that has a familiar tune to it, and Carisi pulls his phone from his pants pocket, ready to update Olivia on their first hit on this guy besides a blurry shot from an apartment gate security camera and a rough idea from a sketch artist.

"When on Wednesday?"

“A bit closer to closin’ time; probably 10:30, maybe 11, give or take. Our garbage is picked up out back, big dumpsters . . . is this about that murder in the morning paper?”

“That’s what we’re trying to figure out. What was he doing?” Fin pushes for more, jotting down every word. 

“Seemed like he was just smoking.” The chef uncrosses his arms from his chest as a guest tries to pay out. Both detectives respectfully move aside, though doing so puts Dominick in a scented cloud of freshly baking sugar. “Relaxing outside of _Gianni’s_ across that corner there. Recognize the hat. Ever since they got rid of their ashtrays, some roll out onto the streets for a puff.” 

He’s happy the chef keeps on talking despite his customer listening between them, as it covers up the gargle of his eager stomach within Fin’s earshot. 

“I ain’t seen him before that, but maybe my sous or servers did. I'm not the only one who takes out the trash here.” He reasons, splitting a toothy grin. 

“We’re mostly concentrated on anyone who may have seen him or where he went on Wednesday night . . . I know you run a busy establishment, but if we could take a few minutes to talk to your staff?” Dominick asks politely as he sends his texts to Benson, the _woosh_ -ing sound and checkmark to follow. 

“Be my guest.” The chef reaches and rustles beneath the countertop for a clipboard. He scans it over for a moment, before handing it off to Tutuola. “This is this week’s schedule. Three of my girls are here right now . . . and a busboy; the rest have their cell numbers on there. I’ll be right back, if you gentlemen wanna get comfy.”

While the pastry chef goes through the swing door himself, the two Detectives settle in a red leather booth lined with red and green tinsel and a little bit of glitter. 

Carisi takes in his surroundings while they wait. The vintage theme diner setting would apparently never rest, but the restaurant _was_ booming, given the day and time in the beating heart of Manhattan. Littered with suited businessmen slugging down cups of coffee, a group of stoners clearly sketching due to police presence, and a few families full of syrup, there was incoherent chatter from every direction. 

Holiday tunes already play through crispy speakers. If they weren’t hunting a lead on a sadistic serial murdering rapist hiding his ugly mug somewhere between these busy blocks and the next, he might even enjoy the decor, the sounds, the treats . . . 

“Hungry, Carisi?” Fin accuses blandly, watching his partner’s eyes once again fall on the display case full of goodies. Moaning just a little at being caught, Dominick’s big hands fall onto his rumbling stomach, squeezing at the material and flesh. 

“Starving. Almost wish we were still canvassing apartments; _nothin’_ smells appealing by the time you make it up to the 7th floor.”

At least he got Fin to crack a smile. 

“Yeah, this place smells like heaven compared to 30 year old carpet and stale cat piss.” He reasons back, carefully peering over, up, and behind Carisi’s shoulder. “Notice a few security cameras hanging up inside . . . wonder if there’s any out near those dumpsters Boyardee was talking about.” 

“If we’re lucky.” Dominick’s hands move off his stomach to unbutton the brass notches of his coat. With the heater vents above them working so hard to combat the weather, he already felt stuffy. “But we haven’t caught a break on this guy yet, so I doubt —”

“— here you go, Detectives.” The head chef interjects, with two young waitresses and a busser scuffling behind him. Carisi felt the corners of his mouth frown at being interrupted, but Fin had already stood and moved on from the conversation, to thank the round baker and begin questioning. The staff members listen intently, and falling quiet, Dominick goes to stand as well. 

At 6 feet, he notices you again. 

You slide by a large, _loud_ family of eight, delivering food with a smile he was now blessed with seeing twice. Only, the pastry chef had made his way to you, pointing in he and Tutuola's general direction. Carisi took a moment to thank God as you crossed the restaurant floor, tucking your notepad into the little white apron tied around your uniform. You were in bubblegum pink house keeping mock dress like the rest of the ladies, neat and clean, despite your magnet-for-stains occupation. 

“Hi . . . you need to talk to me, sir?” You ask of him, polite, side-stepping Fin and the three passing around the artist’s sketch. He's surprised you reach for a handshake like he does, but Dominick doesn't miss a beat and shakes back, large gloved fingers and palms seeming to engulf yours. You introduce yourself to him kindly, bright eyed and curious, heart beating briskly in your chest _just_ a little at his firm, cozy grip. “ . . . how can I help you?”

“I’m Detective Carisi, and the man who is talking to your coworkers is my partner Detective Tutuola. We’re investigating a murder that happen about two blocks from here, Wednesday night.” 

The gravity of their reasoning for being here strikes you over being dazzled by the handsome cop. You had heard one of the chefs on the line going on about the safety of the city over his morning coffee, while you had pre-rolled dough and Vivian stocked coffee bean bags. There was always crime in Manhattan, but this brutality had occurred only a couple streets from Better Batter.

“I heard about that.” You admit, deciding to no longer crowd the center aisle with such a dark conversation. Especially when Mr. and Mrs. Docks in booth 8 stop eating their waffles to eavesdrop. “Though honestly Detective, I feel like all of New York did. My mother even called me from upstate — the way they found that girl . . .”

Motioning to an empty spot just a little further down, you both sit across one another for the first time. He’s all legs, accidentally kicking you beneath the small table, but he’s incredibly charming when he apologizes so you decide then and there to give him a discount on whatever he wants when he leaves.

Dominick feels out his pockets for a statement pad and pen. He also grabs the print out of the sketch and unlocks his cellphone to display the camera security footage picture, placing them all on the table before you.

“Did you see anything unusual Wednesday night, or see this guy hanging around? If not just not tonight, maybe before that? Ever come in for a jelly-filled?”

You take a moment to study the pictures of the man — he was hard to see at all in the security footage picture, though you recognized the bar signs hanging in _Gianni’s_ windows beside him. His hat was bright red to match the OPEN sign; like a sports hat, maybe Boston? His clothes were grainy and dark too, as if he was just a head floating in the shadows.

The sketch was of a face you’d never seen before. Or at least, not one you had known enough about to remember. You tell Detective Carisi that, and try to recall Wednesday night.

With it being holiday season in New York, you’d begin your day late because you had gone to bed late. Evenings got longer in the service industry; more guests, depressing hours. By mid-week, getting the energy to get up and out of bed to grab lunch with your friends Matt and Javiar was a lot, but you had. Then you came into the diner for an exhausting closing shift, and ended the night taking the subway home with your roommate Vivian. 

When you finally look up, you try not to pout at being incapable of helping, but your mouth dips.

“I’m sorry, Detective. I don’t remember seeing this man at all that day. It was just another night on the job, and if he came in here at any point before that, I didn’t see it.” You sigh, gently pushing the pictures back his way. “Is this . . . should we be worried about _this_ guy?”

“That’s what we’re tryina' get to the bottom of.” He rests his chin in his hand, feeling more and more lost with his notes the longer he stares at them. He hopes Fin got something, because if not, they were going to return to Sergeant Benson empty handed. “Have you been to this bar before — uh, _Gianni’s_ , across the street?”

You nod. 

“Everyone has, _here_ , at least. It’s the closest bar from the diner, and the pizza place is around the corner too, so they see a lot of waitresses and servers, cooks, chefs . . . its hole in the wall.”

Carisi scribbles down your words as they come out, and almost out of earshot, he can hear Tutuola wrapping up his spiel with the others. To think they had another block of this same grinding for evidence to do. 

If his gut was saying anything, it was that they weren't going to find much else here. They already knew what kind of crowd _Gianni’s_ attracted, and with no one able to place the man in the red hat anywhere else, he wonders if the lead was turning cold. They still didn’t even have a name for Jane Doe, _with_ the medical examiner trying to run DNA through the system, and CODIS, and Missing Persons, on an express track.

“Is there anything else that maybe you can think of that might be of use for our investigation?” He sits forward a bit more in the chair, meeting your eyes. You like the sincerity you found there, desperate for answers. It was refreshing. You wish you could help more, for the girl’s sake, and probably his. 

“Nothing comes to mind, Detective, I’m sorry.” You say, picking your fingernails anxiously beneath the table. There’s something in your tone that reveals what you’re feeling; scared, he thinks. Maybe sad. Nothing positive.

“It's not _your_ fault, Doll.” He smiles fondly at you for the first time as he clicks his pen and packs up his statement pad. His accent was thick, and his manners finely groomed. What a smile. You feel your heart flutter between your ribs at the sight of it. Men like to catcall and give you nicknames in the shop and on the streets, but something about the way the officer says _Doll_ makes you feel more like a lady than a piece of meat.

“Still . . . my stepfather was a cop — up in Buffalo, before he retired.” You admit to the man, words flowing out. It clicks, and Carisi now gets your exceptional listening skills and firm handshake. “He didn't tell me much, but I know how hard it can be; I’m sorry I can’t be more help.”

“You can.” Carisi says as he stands up, reaching for the silky inner coat pocket lined with NYPD business cards. The printing company had _finally_ shipped in the order with his updated unit contact information, neatly stamped in black and gold font. He gives one to you when you’re standing as well. You tuck it between the folds of the notepad in your pocket. “There’s a real sicko still out there. I want you and your colleagues to think about safety coming to and from work until we’ve got more information on the situation. Got it?”

“Yes.”

“And,” his eyes twinkle as he watches a dish of gooey hotcakes fly by, voice low. You’re exposed to his expensive cologne and something like cinnamon as he leans a little closer to your ear, “I wanna know what on your menu is the best thing to take back to the precinct with me, because I can’t be the only one scarfing down this kinda' food today. I already hear enough of it.”

“You're gonna get fat.” Detective Tutuola’s voice of disbelief nearly makes Carisi jump in his loafers — if only his reflexes weren’t so incredibly tuned. Instead he curls his toes in his socks and turns halfway to include his partner in an attempt at securing some lunch. You try to stifle down a laugh behind your fingers, but you were unsuccessful, blush running across the apples of your cheeks and the bridge of your nose. 

Dominick likes the color, likes the way your lashes and eyes crinkle. You like the way he watches you.

“Man can’t control his stomach.” Fin continues his jab, hand slapping down on Carisi's right shoulder. His grip was tight, but not unkind either. Maybe he found something. 

“We've got lots of options. _Especially_ for the boys in blue.”

You seem genuinely happy to oblige them, and within a few minutes, the sweet waitress was Dominick's favorite person he’d met all week. He makes sure to cover all his bases while Tutuola speaks again with the head chef, this time about supposed additional cameras out back of the place. There's something in the pink rectangle box for Benson, Tutuola, Rollins and even a handful extra in the case of someone like Barba, Tucker or Dodds thinking of popping in on lunch break.

Finally, even though the cannolis seem to be crying out for their new daddy to take them home, he can’t shake the feeling the one with the pink frosting is where he should place his bets today. He gets two, and a pair of coffees for him and his partner as well.

While you ring up his total, he also sends a quick picture of something that looks like a gigantic maple donut with bacon bits to Bella. Maybe she’ll come visit him if he bribes her and his unborn niece or nephew with sugar. 

“Those are delicious, and a fan favorite.” You say as you catch him snapping shots. “Though the apple cider crullers are sin.”

“You're speaking my language, missy, see — I’m tryina' make a very pregnant woman _very_ jealous.” Carisi is nearly singing his words now as he sends the bait to his sister. If her gut, and that growing little Carisi _in_ her gut, was anything like him, she might just show.

“Crazy cravings, huh? Is this your first baby?” You’ve still got a smile on, but inside you feel just a little deflated — you hope it doesn't read in your voice. Your eyes are trained to the receipt you’re scribbling on, pink glitter pen scratching out old prices for the discounted rate. The handsome detective _would_ be taken already; men who were dedicated to the kind of selfless work you know he does, and act as naturally, classically charming like this Carisi guy has, don't stay free for very long. 

The question catches him a little off guard at first, but Dominick was clever. He recovers and straightens up where his lanky form was leaning against the pastry display case. He reaches into his back pocket for his wallet. 

“My sister’s first baby, actually.” Immediately, you forget how to count, heat rising on your neck. You hope he doesn’t notice how long it takes you to finger the final result into the register. “She’s in . . . what I _wanna_ say is the second trimester, but maybe the third by now. Just know she keeps getting incredibly rounder and rounder every time I see her.”

You dare to peep at him while waiting on the drawer to pop, and to your horror and delight, he’s watching you in a way that feels self-satisfied. You can’t help but take the bait. 

“Now, how much do I owe ya’?”

“10.62.” You say. 

Dominick’s blonde, bushy eyebrows pinch together, knowing very well how many pastries he was about to load into the squad car in comparison to the prices on the Thanksgiving themed whiteboard behind you. He opens his mouth to say _thank you_ , because there was nothing else appropriate to do when a sweet thing like you was generously providing him with something so good, but the cellphone in his pocket starts blaring. 

“One second.” He’s sliding his card across to you, then, with the phone to face, “ _Carisi_.”

“ _It’s Benson._ _CODIS finally finished running the DNA on anything and everything around or on Jane Doe, and it came up empty. Meaning she most likely wasn't a working girl, which is a break in this guy’s pattern._ ” She wastes no time with formalities on cases like these. He can hear the way disappointment rattles her, even through the call. “ _Rollins is heading to the M.E. department now to collect evidence bags for storage. I got your text; what’s the status on Linebaugh?_ ”

“There’s not much here, _ah_ . . .” He grimaces at the truth, turning away from you for a moment.

Normally he wasn’t so slow, so distracted; he blames a few weeks worth of horrible night’s sleep — the whole squad, no, the whole New York police department was rocked by urgency, waves of it. With the possibility of another attack like this on their streets, this being the third, and the Mayor’s office sticking their fingers up Benson’s ass after the story leaked to the _Times_ , it was one of those horror cases he wouldn't rest well with until the jury reached verdict.

Maybe it was the hunger. And today, definitely you, not that he’d say it. 

“. . . we hit housing up and down the block: no one heard or saw him, or anything, from any of their windows, or so they say. _Whatever —_ _however_ , we’re at a bakery on the corner now where a pastry chef says he can place our guy, at the bar for sure between 10:30 and 11, ‘give or take’. Was out for a smoke. Tutuola is inquiring about cameras; they have a few in the restaurant for sure, but it was unclear whether or not there were any outside that faced _Gianni’s_.”

“ _Alright,_ well _, even if they don’t have any facing North, I want those tapes. That goes for every restaurant in the vicinity — he didn’t just appear out of nowhere, and I want my eyes on his every move. We can’t miss a thing. And when you’re done, you and Fin need to come back to the precinct as soon as possible; Chief Dodds,”_ he's glad he grabbed extra pastries, “ _wants everyone here when we brief patrol on this son of a bitch_.”

“Okay, Sarg’.” He replies, and that’s the end of the call. He spends more and more days with the Manhattan Special Victims Unit, and more and more he understands why Olivia Benson was such an important figurehead that he had heard her name long before he had ever had the pleasure to meet her. Incredible under pressure, which Dominick admires, and passionate about every single case. And she had already certainly taught him a lot.

Depositing his phone, he turns back to apologize to you, _except_ \-- there’s some different waitress handing over his card and check. He signs so quickly he barely saw the line, and turns 180 to look for you instead, but you’re back on the floor of the diner, laughing with a group of five, because you’d already spent too much time away from your guests, for sure. And anyways, Tutuola is coming towards him with a thick, black box looking USB . . . so Detective Carisi takes that as time to leave. 

The car is still toasty and humid when he and Fin nearly launch themselves through the front and passenger door. The sun was hiding somewhere behind stocky, gloomy clouds, a flurrying of sleet blanketing everything it could touch. While Tutuola starts the engine with one hand and blasts the heat with the other, Dominick wastes no time stealing one of his two pillowy donuts out of the box.

“Cheers.” He grins, and groans a little too, at the first _fantastic_ bite, despite Fin’s unfazed expression.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi there i hope you enjoyed!!! see you next time!!
> 
> xx bagels


	2. Gin & Beer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carisi runs into you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bet you thought you'd seen the last of me!
> 
> hi yall sorry for the mega late update. i had a major surgery and was only a couple days into recovery when i wrote the first chapter. it's been a long road to getting healthy again, but my life is finally back to being a bit more normal, and i missed this yankee. your comments were so endearing; i'm glad everyone is enjoying so far!! this chapter is a little lax when it comes to plot but we gotta take baby steps eating crumbs before we get the cake!!!!
> 
> enjoy xx -- bagels

* * *

**HOGS CHOP AND SHOP  
** **6329 HARTFORD STREET  
** **MANHATTAN, NEW YORK  
** **FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 18TH**

* * *

The next time you see Dominick, you consider saying hello. 

It’s a week after the NYPD had made half your regular customers gossip your ear off over way too many refills on decaf instant brew, and now it seems like it never happened. 

That night had been full of the same whirlwind of storytelling as the day: you had text your mom mid-shift that the Manhattan police were investigating, and by the time you arrived home, she had ordered you a new taser off of Amazon. Vivian had laid her head in your lap as you watched the midnight news. Matt had text you to see if you had even seen that there was a murder. 

You tucked the NYPD card in your wallet.

Then you woke up, got dressed and went back to work. 

There’s a football game on the tv today, so every dad in your section is ignoring everything _but_ the game, making it incredibly hard to take orders down. Mia showed up half an hour after opening a little hungover, again, but she promised to let you go early to make up for it, so you’re looking forward to that. Besides, the couple breaking up in booth two was keeping you entertained.

You almost forgot about the Detectives, about the girl who had her limbs removed. Almost. 

But then came shift change, and Mia took over your section to make more money for whatever she planned on blowing it on tonight, and you and Vivian got to leave midday at the same time. Throwing your winter coat over your shoulders and buttoning it up, you both scurry out of _Better Batter_ before they could ask you to stay. 

“Jesus, it’s fucking cold already. Will December be worse?” She says with disdain to your right, stretching her beanie down over her fluffy hair, ears and neck. 

You want to lie to her. She had only been in the state of New York for less than a year, and you know what frigid storms still had yet to come. But you can’t.

“We’re going to have to start investing in thicker blankets.” You say instead, breath whispy and visible as you speak. “It’s not going to be a pretty one, that’s for sure.”

She makes an unhappy noise, retreating further into her coat and pockets. You don’t notice it as sharply anymore, skin used to the biting feeling the air has in exposure. The sun was doing it’s best, muffled behind an afternoon snow cloud, but the warmth was gone.

The two of you come up to a stoplight. Vivian hits the pedestrian waiting button, and you see Detective Carisi.

He wasn’t exactly hard to miss, all 6 feet of him; not to mention an NYPD jumper, dark slacks and thick black winter boots. He paces back and forth in front of the butcher shop on Waverly Street, on his cellphone, arguing into the receiver. There’s an attractive blonde on his left also in an NYPD jumper, looking just as irritated as her partner. 

“Isn’t that the hot cop from last week? I wonder if they know anything else.”

“Yeah.” You say, a little breathless. You feel a little silly for forgetting that something horrendous had taken place a block away just a few days ago. Or for being a little excited to see him again. 

“Do we cross the street?”

“Yeah.” You say, because there wasn’t really a reason not to, and the little blinker man said it was time to go _now_. The herd of people move through the street, you two included, before finally hitting raised concrete again. Vivian sacrifices the integrity of her warm hands to pinch your elbow.

“You should have given him your number.” She chastises, sounding surprisingly like your mother, and you shush her despite being at least twenty feet away still. “Seriously, he was flirting —”

“— he was _working_.” You argue, feeling your palms sweat suddenly in your coat pockets. “Which is what it looks like he’s doing right now, so don’t do anything to embarrass me.”

The two of you skirt by. Dominick hangs up the phone.

“Barba needs more evidence to support a warrant, I —” He huffs, ruffled enough to lose his train of thought, and sends another few texts out. “I think it looks _bad_ when a butcher shop three blocks away from where a girl is violently cleaved to death won’t let us investigate their stock, but — apparently, we need more.”

“Wouldn’t it be nice if we could claim exigent circumstances all the time?” Amanda shakes her head in mild disbelief, and turns on her heels to head back the other direction — hungry, pregnant and considerably frustrated. 

Carisi catches up in just a few strides. He has a feeling they’d be back to Hogs Chop and Shop for one reason or the next. 

“Though I got a tip from a land lady across the street who thinks this place deals lowkey, so they could just be trying hiding their second income.”

“Thinkin’ a judge would sign off on a possession search? We might be able to get a warrant for that.”

“Maybe . . . I have her statement.” Amanda reasons, reminding Dominick again why he’s glad she’s his partner. Despite their habit of not exactly seeing eye to eye, he finds Rollins surprising him with her affinity for consideration. “It’s at least worth calling Barba back over before they move or destroy any evidence.”

The two partners stand at the corner, trying to chase away the frosty New York breeze. Right across the street, Carisi spots _Better Batter_ , and thinks of you, for a fleeting moment. 

He also remembers the meeting with Chief Dodds shortly after they’d left, and how it had put everyone off food for a couple hours.

3 victims, all beaten, raped and dismembered to death. The first two had been prostitutes, one just outside the city, the next in Long Island. The third girl was found last Wednesday in Manhattan, and was identified as the meeting had wrapped up — Hannah Gomez, 25. A pianist. 

There was an animal hunting the streets of New York City; something brutal and insane. It makes Dominick feel incredibly uneasy as he leads Rollins back to where they’d parked the squad car. He decides Barba had enough time to chew on his dinner. 

He does purchase a few mini donuts for the ride while arguing with Rafael for a warrant, pleased when Amanda’s face gains a little more color with each bite.

Somewhere across the city, the subway carries you and your roommate closer and closer to home. You chatter over your to-go coffees on the tube, ignoring the smell of wet socks and public bus seats. In the lucky favor of having the night off, the pair of you would actually get to cook before venturing back to _Gianni’s_ like every Friday before it and those to come.

The hours pass by quickly, filled with an unsuccessful attempt to recreate a dish from _Hell’s Kitchen_ , showering and spending too long wrapped in a towel lost on your phone, then a rushed put together of an outfit. With the temperature dropping, you opt for comfort over style -- jeans, a pink, fuzzy sweater Vivian let you borrow rent free, and a jacket with pockets large enough to keep your hands from freezing.

You’re dead set on relacing your boots by the front door when you feel your phone vibrate in the seams of your jeans. Retrieving it, it reads: _Matt_.

“Hello?”

“Are you guys coming or not? Javiar has big news and he hasn’t even told _me_. I assume it’s something with work, since commitment scares him and I don’t have a ring.”

You hear a vague rebuttal to that, but Matt shushes his partner and launches back in before you can speak either.

“Besides your dad gave my dad a box of things and it’s been riding in my trunk for me for a week. If I don’t hand it off to you soon, my car will absorb it.”

“Yes, we’re coming -- just running behind.” Putting the phone on speaker, you go back to lacing your boots in the interest of saving time. In your peripheral vision, Vivian wiggles into her jeans with one hand in the hallway, toothbrush in the other. “And you’re going to be sorry if he asks you tonight and you just spoiled it.”

You decide to gloss over your stepfather’s package, not entirely thrilled with it after arguing with him over an hour ago on the phone. You had made the mistake of mentioning seeing Detective Carisi when he had asked about your day, and he forcefully voiced his fear of you working in the city. Winter season was dark and dangerous, and you knew it. The holidays raise crime. But you were a waitress, and this was your best time of year to be in business too.

“He won’t. It’s a case of the Daddy Issues.” You can hear the smile in Matt’s tone, even through a receiver. You assume Javiar is sat beside him, less than pleased. 

“We have those in common.” You lament in his defense. “Hang tight, we’ll be there soon.”

* * *

 **GIANNI’S SPORTS PUB  
** **6318 WESTON ROAD  
** **MANHATTAN, NEW YORK  
** **FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 18TH**

* * *

You try to settle down comfortably at the bartop, fingers already sticky from the red, sugar-lined shot Javiar greeted you with. He and Vivian babble about something on Netflix over hugs and kisses, and you take the opportunity to get buzzed. The glass clinks between your fingers and knocks back, and you hate it, like every other shot you’ve ever taken. But the bite of liquor ages like you do too. 

“Ugh, that kind of week.” Matt cooes, rubbing his hands up and down your arms in support. “I’ve got your next one too.”

“You poor girls look exhausted.” Javiar says in agreement, unbuttoning the navy pea coat at the center and catching the seat beside you. He takes a look at the time -- _10:48_. “Has work been insane?”

“Yes—” Your roommate gulps from her strawberry margarita, pushing the glasses higher on her face with the other hand, “—so busy.”

“I don’t mind working; it's paying the bills. I argued all night with my stepdad all night _about_ it and it bummed me out.” You admit, feeling the warmth of gin ease a knot in your stomach. The bartender in front of you is unfamiliar but kind looking, short blonde hair and big blue eyes. He gets you another drink and you can’t see his nametag before he’s turning away to service someone else at the end of the row.

“What was there to argue about?” Questions Matt. “You’re a big girl, he just doesn’t see it.”

“He’s more concerned with the murders.” Vivian reasons, knowing fully well what an earful you had gotten on the phone. As a retired police officer, your stepfather’s opinion of the NYPD had been jaded from working upstate. You’d met many fine men and women from the city that were competent and faithful to their jobs. You had watched him struggle with his own cases and loss, not that he’d ever say that was true.

“We’re concerned about that too, actually.” Javiar says, tipping the bartender. A few tables down, a pair of men start arguing over something you’re unconcerned with, interested to hear what your friend thinks on the matter. “Until they catch this guy, you two shouldn’t be walking alone at all before or after your shifts.”

“We know the drill.” You reply, shaking a little in the chair. You can hear a heavy rattling in your pockets -- a wallet, your phone and keys, _and_ the new taser your mother had purchased. 

Javiar doesn’t take that as being well enough prepared, and the conversation shifts from one topic to the next. 

You find out his big news was another stellar increase in profit with his company, securing a hefty Christmas bonus -- which was wonderful for the new couple living on their own after a few years of dating. Vivian spends at least half an hour rehearsing her ‘ _please let us have a cat_ ’ speech for the landlord with the three of you, and by midnight, a fight between the two gentlemen from down the bar spills out onto the street. 

Matt peels his eyes away from the front door to take another draw at the dart board. You see the red and blue shine of cop lights despite the glare of the pool table light you’d dominated. Though, your opponent was Vivian, who had rolled a blunt and smoked it before begging to play, and had been distracted by the ruckus like everyone else since.

You sunk several pockets, defeating her with ease. She fakes an air of crankiness, forced to buy the next round of drinks. You’re considering cutting yourself off, already feeling fuzzy and exhausted, but she’s gone to the bar before you can say otherwise. The hours in the day had begun to shrink, but you rationalize it by being surrounded by good people. It was worth the extra espresso shot in the morning.

You start to re-rack the pool table, coming around to get the triangle. When you turn back with it in hand, as well as a new cue and chalk, you spot a pair of men moving quickly from the open front door, smattered with free falling snow. 

They’re zipped into NYPD windbreakers.

“Detective?” You try carefully, unsure if the shots of the strong stuff had impaired your vision. But his attention swims from the cellphone in his hands as they go to pass by, to your pretty face instantly, eyes wide, mouth twitching from disbelief to a bright smile. You can’t contain your own excitement; it’s evident there on your expression and skin, near red from blushing. 

“My favorite pastry girl.” He replies without missing a beat, watching how you grip the pool cue tighter. You look incredible in the soft bar light — pinned hair, pink top, clean jeans. There’s sweat from a rowdy game of darts still glistening across your face and neck and chest. He finds he likes your eyes best, with bashful lashes and an innocent look. He was Catholic, or “Christ-like”, or _whatever_ , but he’s going to commit a few sins with you for sure.

“Are you working?” You peek to your right in the general direction of the crew sent for more drinks. Vivian is lost in conversation with the bartender. Matt and Javiar were lost in each other. 

“Yes.” Carisi replies, a frown on his face when he realizes that’s true. He starts trying to remember the way you look like this, because he’s sure he can’t stand here for very long. Fin was already turning to leave, with this not being an official SVU investigation. “We got a tip from some good samaritan about a lead related to our case, and were in the area. Dispatch heard _Gianni’s_ ; we were asked to make a special trip.”

You know he’s here on business, but you wish he’d stay. There’s enough liquor lingering in your veins that you’re leaning closer to hear him as he speaks. Despite not knowing very much about the cop before you, there’s a sense of ease in his demeanor that you can’t help find charming. You wonder how old he is as he brushes away stray snowflakes from neat salt and pepper hair. 

“That’s a shame.” You find your voice. “My pool partner abandoned me.”

Your eyes flash back to Vivian, and _now_ you have her attention. Detective Carisi follows your eyeline too, to see a spunky looking girl at the bar waving back with her free hand. 

“Next time.” Dominick says like a reflex, feeling Fin’s eyes on his back by the front door. They weren’t on a time crunch anymore, with the lead tip leading them to a completely unrelated environment. But there was paperwork approaching deadlines on all their desks, and he needed sleep at some point in the next few hours.

You don’t feel the rejection as hard as someone else might. For just a second, you’re glad your step-father _had_ been a cop — you’ve become able to recognize the pained look of a cruel job with harsher hours. Still, wouldn’t it be nice to imagine . . .

You smile.

“I’ll hold that to you, Detective.” You say it like a challenge instead, extending a hand. He shakes it in promise.

“Call me Sonny. It’s Dominick, actually, but Sonny stuck.” When he lets go of your hand, he goes for his zipper instead, bundling before having to brave the arid outdoors. You take a moment to try _Sonny_ out in your head. You’d only heard him say his name twice — introducing himself, and on the phone at _Better Batter._ You remember a quick ‘Carisi’, and of course ‘Detective’. But this was tangible. Dominick.

“Sonny.” You say. “Good luck out there.”

“Yeah — you too, and _hey_ —” At a sudden thought, all 6 foot something of a man turns back from his exit. Your heart flutters away like a bird trapped between bars when he winks, “— you girls get home _safe_. I’m gonna need someone experienced to make me my coffee in the morning.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> not me blasting man after midnight while writing this entire chapter ..............


	3. Syrup & Spice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sonny treats Bella to lunch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey nuggets enjoy this one! i wrote it all in one night and its the longest chapter yet lmao. cheers on the new season!

* * *

**BETTER BATTER DINER & BAKERY  
** **6344 LINEBAUGH AVENUE  
** **MANHATTAN, NEW YORK  
** **SUNDAY, NOVEMBER 20TH**

* * *

Dominick fluffs at the frosty snow on his sister’s shoulders before working on his own. The first thing he hears entering the little diner is the music, bouncing from wall to wall quite holly and jolly-like. There’s people everywhere chatting, scattered into booths and tables lined with tinsel. Red and green sparkling lights already overpower the Thanksgiving decor, despite the holiday being days away.

He’s starting to think that maybe they wouldn’t find a table, when — 

“— Hi.” A young male host is dressed like an elf who spent the last few days sleeping in his uniform. He greets Bella with an incredibly fake smile, menus already in hand. “Would you like to be seated?”

“Yes.” Her hands come to lay on her stomach, rubbing the not-so-little bump beneath her purple long sleeve. There’s love in the way she pats the healthy curve. “Anywhere is fine. I need coffee. Even if it’s decaf.”

“You’re telling me — after Father John’s second sermon on ‘respecting thy neighbor’, I started to assume his dirty looks towards Father Marcus were sorta pointed.” Says Dominick as they slide into a small booth, freshly cleaned near a window. He can see the busy city street of Manhattan hustling by outside, his sister, and the rest of the restaurant from this spot. A cop's perfect nest.

He watches as his little sister ties her hair back, eyeing the pink and red menu before her like it had the answer to riddles she’s tried to answer for years. She doesn’t look up to reply, flipping between the pages.

“It seems weird for priests to have beef with each other, right?” 

“You’d be surprised.” He replies, leaning back in contemplation. “I’m sure like any job you’re gonna get someone who tests your patience. Doesn’t matter if you’re a cop, or the Pope, or an artist —” 

“— _yeah_ , but imagine what sort of bullshit you’ve gotta be pulling to piss off Father John.” 

He can see where she has a point. The man was a humble and patient, nearly blind disciple of God. He’d been the pastor at the Carisi family’s church of choice in Staten Island for several years now, present for every rotation of the testaments. Only this early Sunday morning felt off, with sour glances and rushed readings offsetting the peaceful atmosphere. 

In the parking lot of Our Lady of Lourdes, Dominick had tempted Bella to enjoy some of a rare day off by his side, reminding her of a certain sweet treat restaurant she gushed over upon receiving her treats. It was a nice day on the ride back into the city together, before the sky reigned in all puffy grey. Now everything was covered in a thin blanket of sleet. 

Carisi’s train of thought shifts when a tall, freckled waitress comes by to greet them. His eyes flow around the establishment, mildly disappointed you’re not the one to say hello, but he assumes perhaps you’d been given the day off.

After running into you at _Gianni’s_ , Dominick had found it a little harder to concentrate. The odds of seeing you again weren’t exactly impossible, with the neighborhood of your job under heavy surveillance in an ongoing criminal investigation. But he hadn’t expected to see you there in the middle of the night, with a soft look on your face, out of uniform and glowing. 

Tutuola had given him an earful about it as they scribbled away at their paperwork, watching Carisi’s attention slip from folder to folder. He was exhausted, focus blurred from countless hours poured into this heinous case. Was this statement from the lady in 5C actually going to be admissible? Did you make it home safe?

“Something got you distracted, hot shot?” Fin had finally had enough of the twiddling pen, the sound of it clicking it on and off with no rhythm. “You’ve been on the same report for half an hour. If your brain is mush, go home.”

“Yeah.” Is all Dominick could say. He’d sat back, stretching tall and wide. The leather chair squished and squealed under pressure. He did feel guilty; his mind shifting from page 26 of this thick stack of unhelpful reports to you. 

You had pouted just a little at his dismal, wanting him to stick around. _You had liked him too._

His last attempt at a girlfriend ended with her incapable of grasping the life of a working cop. The job was clearly becoming more brutal and left little room for social life. Some cases had him feeling sick and vulnerable. Some left him uninterested in anything having to do with sex. But he had a feeling you could be different —

“ _Sonny_ —” Bella snaps him out of the spiraling memory. It was probably for the best, with the rest of the evening ending in Dominick arriving home and passing out in his clothes on the couch, “— order something; the lady is _waiting_.”

“Coffee, black, some sugar on the side. Please.” He replies without hesitation, and as the waitress struts away to retrieve it, Bella gently jabs him across the table. 

“What’s on your mind?” She knows him so well, enough to see the fat layers of thoughts stacking up in his head. It reads on his expression, bushy brows knit and troubled. “Something with work?”

“It’s that case I was telling Ma about.” He doesn’t want to get into the details, not today. Bella or his niece or nephew need not be exposed to such trauma. “Don’t worry about it. What are you ordering?”

“The Cheesecake Pancakes.” Her fingers point to the top of the menu. She mercifully decides to drop her worries. Sonny was a big boy. “And a side or two of bacon. God, they have something called the Grumpy Old Geezer.”

“It’s _amazing_. Two seasonal pancakes, two eggs, two bacon and fresh fruit. Hot maple gravy on top.” 

A pair of coffee cups clink onto the table as a new voice chimes in, and Dominick does a double take. Remembering the older, ginger haired woman from before, he’s pleasantly surprised to find _you._ You don’t meet his attention at first, pouring coffee for his sister with a smile.

“Hi, I’ll be taking over for Paula.” You flick at your silver name tag once, introducing yourself to the pretty young blonde beside Dominick. Bella sees the way her brother grins, eyes smoldering and glued to the planes of your face when you finally pay attention to him. “ _Detective_ , I wondered when you were going to show back up. I think you owe me a game of pool.”

“Couldn’t stay gone for long, Doll.” He coos, making the hair on your body stand from spine to feet. Then he offers a hand in the direction of his companion. “This is my sister, Bella — she had a taste and needed a second round.”

“Yeah, I just can’t _seem_ to control myself.” She replies lewdly over her coffee cup rim, eyes narrowed and calculating while her rubber boot meets his ankle. Dominick wasn’t slick — this was the most awake she’d seen him in a month, with soft puppy eyes and a flushed neck rising from beneath his wool collar. His big, leather bound foot kicks her back against the shin. 

“It’s a pleasure to meet you.” You say back genuinely, aloof to the sibling altercation. You’re just happy to see him here, and so handsomely pressed, like a little gift from above. His jeans were dark blue, along with his turtleneck sweater, peeking from beneath the tan trench-coat. Well groomed, well mannered — what more could you ask for on this gloomy Sunday afternoon? “Did you have any questions on the menu?” 

“No, I’m ready if you are.” He says to his sibling. Bella orders politely and with a knowing smile, handing you back the folded menu. He does the same, and just like that, you disappear back into the ruckus of the restaurant.

5 minutes ago, you had been downing a sneaky milkshake in the cooler when Vivian collided with you, a scuffle that nearly took you both to the floor. When you had settled both of you on four feet again, she was still breathing hard and heavy. Neither of you say a word at first, but as she takes quick gasps, a sentence forms. 

“ — hot cop — table 18 — pregnant girl — ” 

Excitement had panged through you, like a hot charge of lightning through your feet. It didn’t take much begging at Paula to swap tables with you, and after Vivian took a moment to pat down your fly-always and fix your bra strap, you descended on Sonny and his guest.

Time passes quickly in the restaurant life, parties coming and going, eating and laughing. Unfortunately for you, the time spent with the Detective and his sister was brief, over refills and delivering food. The weekends were always slammed, multiple tables needing service at once.

The curiosity would eat through you though, and your eyes find the pair from across the room. Each time, you’re surprised to find he’s looking back.

“Did you like it?” Carisi’s eyelashes flutter open from their brief closed squeeze when you return for the final time. You carefully place the check at the edge of the table. Bella groans, a pleasured response that gets you laughing. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

“I never wanted to live this far into Manhattan until now.” She admits, hands falling to rest on her child. “We’re both stuffed.”

“I don’t even think Ma can make pancakes like that. I was surprised because— ”

“You better not let her hear you say that; you’ll be on the streets for good.” You like Bella’s attitude, quick wit and the edge of a strong woman. You notice the similarity between siblings when she ends her jest with a wink your way. 

“Alright, alright . . . second best.” He throws his hands up in defense. “Don’t get me in trouble. It’s almost Thanksgiving.”

“I won’t tell if you won’t.” You say, not that you really assumed you would ever meet Mother Carisi. You didn’t even know if you’d make it home for Thanksgiving yourself — Vivian’s mother was overseas as an active duty Marine, leaving her alone in the city for the holidays for the first time. She planned on cooking for Matt and Javiar, and all the while, your mother had mentioned something about a getaway cruise in Maine with your stepdad over a brief call on your way to work. Maybe you would pick up a shift. 

“Hey . . .” Mia’s voice murmurs suddenly behind you, a whisper in your ear, “. . . Rachel dropped a big tray of crème brûlées in the kitchen and needs you to help her get into the storage closet for the mop. She said you had the key?” 

You could kill your scatterbrained coworkers, wrapping your morning with Dominick up on the spot. He’s reaching for the check in front of you when Bella snatches it from his grasp.

“Sonny, Bella, thank you again. Take it easy and stay warm, okay?” You convey your appreciation for this treat, a special highlight in a long day to come. Dominick looks like he wants to say more, but wrestles out a fleeting _Thanks_ as you’re turning away. 

“Oh — this is for you.” Bella chuckles moments later, something un-folded and half stuck between two fingers. Sonny takes it from her immediately. 

He can’t remember the last time he was so pleased to see 10 digits, but there they were, followed by a cheeky heart and tiny flame in red pen. 

Carisi finds it unfortunate that his sister was exposed to whatever this little thing between the two of you is outright before he could mention it, but when you look back at him for good measure before jogging back into the kitchen for rescue, he no longer cares. 

“Are you using me to get laid?” Bella accuses, feigning disgust. “Me and my baby. Brought here as props.”

“Quit your whining, and give me that —” He barks, stealing back the check. 

“Gonna write a little love note back to your _girlfriend_?”

“Bella, I swear to any saint listening that I will not take this abuse.” He says it so sternly, but as they stand to go, he hugs her tight with one arm. “And listen, you tell any of this to Ma, and your baby has no uncle.”

The hours fly by after they leave. Helping clean up the kitchen was an event, custard and sugar dusted all over the floor and wall. You’re sticky and disheveled, stepping out smelling like a candy bar. Soon Dominick and Bella escape from your mind, back to the focus required to feed hungry guests and get tipped too. 

It’s a little after 5 when you take a moment to check your phone. With the shift just about over, Vivian smokes a menthol cigarette beside you, browsing social media out back. As the sun sets behind pillars of steel and concrete, the chill wafts in, leaving the two of you sit slouched side by side.

There’s a text from an unknown number sent over an hour ago, and your heart races to your fingertips as you open it. 
    
    
    UNKNOWN 3:57PM  
    
    Hello Dollface its Sonny  
    
    _Free tonight?_

You gently nudge Vivian, who takes a drag and peeks at your screen. As she reads it, the expression on her dainty face lights up, fireworks in her smile.

“It must be _fate_ that you have the night off.” She’s almost yelling, giggling with anticipation for you. She’s reaching to take your cellphone right out of our hands, but you’re quicker than that, reaching over your heads. “Say yes! Now! Go get yours!”

“I’m typing, I’m typing . . .” You reply, holding the device close to your face. You consider a multitude of different responses, but eventually land on:
    
    
    SONNY 5:03 PM  
    
    _yes! i'll be available after 7:30_

This gives you enough time to take the subway home and get ready, showered and shaven. Vivian sits beside you as you cross city lines, helpful and animated as you discuss wardrobe options, conversation topics and, of course, sex. She paints a grotesque picture that has you heated and blushing, but curious. 

Your last sexual encounter had been a few months ago — a drunken lackluster event. It had been over too soon, with a guy who’d slipped into your bed after an exhausting week at Gianni’s. 

But Dominick was older than him, more experienced. You liked the way he filled out his uniform, the strong angles of his face. The alluring sense of mingling with something dangerous.

In a whirlwind of getting ready, about an hour before pickup time, you decide to call your mom. The steam from the shower still clogs the bathroom, making it impossible to apply any makeup yet. So you lounge on the couch in a robe beside Vivian, who smokes a thinly rolled joint over a newer episode of Grey’s Anatomy.

“Hi honey, you’re on speaker phone!” Your mom says loudly. You hear the sound of vegetables being sliced, something bubbling and a quiet “Hello!” from your stepfather somewhere farther away.

“Hi. What are you making?”

“Devil’s Lasagna!” Your mother raves, enthralled by her own cooking. Growing up, the spicy layered dish would make your entire neighborhood smell like green peppers and garlic. Homesickness rattles you, but you know your family is only a few hours away. At least upstate was near. 

You ask her to freeze you some.

“Of course! I’ll make sure Tucker doesn’t eat it all.” 

Tucker, your stepfather, says something that sounds awfully like: “I make no promises.” 

“So what’s new, darling?” Your mother trots over her husband, and you finger at a soft spot on your robe anxiously. “No work tonight?”

“Not tonight.” You sigh, catching Vivian’s eye. “I worked this morning though. I have a date actually. In like an hour.”

“A date, huh?” The speaker rattles in an instant as your stepfather grabs at the phone, despite your mother’s protests. You roll your eyes at the way he jumps right in. “Where’d you meet him? It better not be that cook I met last time we visited, I’m telling you, kid, I didn’t like the look of his tattoos.”

“ _Tucker_ , give me the phone.” Your mother demands. You try to get a word in, but —

“ _Diana_ , focus on the parmesan; it’s burning.” Then, “Well?”

“He’s not from work, Dad.” Vivian makes a puppeteering motion of holding a gun to her head, warning you of the dangerous territory you walk. You brave through, wincing. “He’s a cop, actually. A respectful gentleman. We just happen to have met at work.”

“His work or your work? You’re not involved in anything I should be worried about right? Wait. Is this the same cop investigating —”

“Tucker. I will sign and send divorce papers if you don’t give me back my daughter.” Your mom threatens, sounding far too sweet and savory for such a big statement. With the phone so loud between the two of you, Vivian can’t help but stifle laughter at your family banter. You miss your parents the more they tease each other, hearing the receiver shift hands again.

“You won’t divorce me; I’m the only one who can get the thermostat just right— ” 

“— alright, darling, as you were saying. What’s he like?”

“He’s . . . he’s _nice_.” You surmise, because anything else felt like wrong information. You didn’t know much about the handsome detective popping in and out of your life, but you ached to find out more. How to make him smile so hard it hurt. Where he grew up. The minutes couldn’t tick by fast enough. “This is our first date, so I’ll have more of an idea of what he’s like after.”

“You should wear that lovely dress you wore to your cousin’s engagement party.” She urges. You think of the dark tan strapless dress hung somewhere in the pits of your closet. It’s short and tight, flowy and slit, but flattering against your skin. It was an option. 

“Its 49 degrees outside.” You propose.

“So you wear a coat.” The sound of a blender revving drowns her out for a second, suggestion lost in the kitchen. “. . . something like that or at least a strapped heel? You have great calves.”

Your mother’s adoration of fashion and modeling never ceases to amaze you, like an angel sent from the Couture Gods. As a retired editor of a few well known magazines littered throughout New York, you had been blessed to grow up in a household dedicated to a different kind of cloth. Such an opposite to your stepdad, who’s athletic retirement body only ever saw athletic clothes. 

“We’ll see. I just shaved, I don’t need goosebumps to give me stubble.”

“I know what dress she’s talking about, and I think you should wear a pair of sweats and a big shirt.” Your dad chimes in, chewing on something crunchy. “Send the right message.”

“That she’s a virgin?” Your mom scoffs. “I think not. I want grandbabies, Tucker.”

Vivian sees the Lord and dies from holding in her hysterics, a little faded but always intrigued by your family dynamic. As your two parents argue back and forth, loving and spastic against your face, you feel a _bzz bzz._
    
    
    SONNY 6:47 PM  
    
    _Pick you up at 8?  
    
    Dropping my sister off_

Your silence goes unnoticed as Tucker and Diana launch into a story about their desire for grandchildren or more pets. Sending back a thumbs up and an address, you decide it was time to halt the conversation. 

“Mom, Dad? Sorry to cut and run, but I’ve gotta start getting ready.”

“Have fun!” Your mother cries. “Just be yourself — you’re most beautiful that way.”

“She’s right, kiddo.” You’re surprised to find your father agreeing. It touches you softly, before his brash tongue can’t help it. “And if he hurts you, I have friends much more important than this yahoo Detective in the NYPD. Cops retire all the time.”

“I love you, _goodbye_.” You stress, before hanging up the phone. 

“She’s right, about the dress, you know.” Vivian extinguishes her joint in a small little ashtray on the side table. She stares you down boldly, like an artist to a blank canvas. “Let me pin your hair.”

You would have to send your mother a private thank you text by the end of the night, since Dominick now stares at you like he was seeing an angel mortalized. He’s all smiles and hellos at your front door when you first open it, but hungry looks match each other up on the stoop. His speech stifles. 

Carisi darts his gaze from your pretty, slicked back bun, to the way the dress makes enticing shapes underneath a white winter coat. You’re a little taller in boots instead of sneakers. You like that his hair was a little less stiff, a small tuff begging to be twirled in your fingers. He’s dressed the same as the morning, looking classic and chic, like old money and expensive spices. 

“You look incredible.” Sonny says, like it was a certain fact. You could look it up in a book and define it. Heat bounds all over your skin, neck to heart and groin. You can’t recall the last time someone said it to you so sincerely. No catcall on the road or seedy customer compliment would ever compare. “Ready to go?” 

“Yes, let me grab my bag.” He leans against the doorframe as you turn to go get it, grabbing it and your keys off the countertop. Vivian meets his eyes over the back of the couch and raises her tea mug for a toast in good luck to your date.

“Detective.” She says. “Take good care of her.”

“Oh, I will.” He assures, knuckle grazing your midback as you leave your roommate behind.

You politely close the door behind you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i know we're hungry for smut and its coming i promise, but i wanted this to flow a little organically -- like an actual few episodes of svu might. i wanted to establish reader-chan a little more before exposing the porn. however i've got some goodies and some murder!plot brewing in the next two chapters, so stay tuned and let me know what you think so far!!!
> 
> xx bagels


	4. Lemon & Lime

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carisi takes you on a date.
> 
> or, you see the man in the red hat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> do you ever talk to your fbi agent? i was googling nyc precinct information, maps, etc. and looked at my webcam like "im not doing something illegal its for a fanfic mind ur business"
> 
> this chapter was so much fun because it does a complete 180. enjoy !!
> 
> any guesses on the killer? 
> 
> bagels xx

* * *

**BER BLANC FINE DINING  
** **907 BARLEY WAY  
** **YONKERS, NEW YORK  
** **FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 20TH**

* * *

Carisi frowns at you over a chilled bourbon, bringing the glass away from his mouth. 

“That’s the most un-New Yorker thing I’ve ever heard.”

“Blame my stepfather.” You can’t help but chuckle, sticking the fork into your chicken breast. The pair of you had nearly devoured the cuisine to its entirety. “He’s a die hard Sox fan, since his family is still in Massachusetts. I think it’s a form of conditioning that I am too.

“What about the Giants? Rangers? Or is it just baseball?” He takes another sip, eyebrows raised high on his forehead. 

The dim and warm lights cast shadows on the two of you, creating a private bubble in a sea of boisterous people.

At first you had wondered how he had secured such a venue at such short notice on a Friday night, but upon arrival a woman you could only assume was the manager shook Carisi’s hand, thanking him for whatever previous good deed the cop had bestowed _Ber Blanc._

The last few hours had passed by in a blink. The ride to Yonkers from Manhattan wasn’t terrible, with traffic at half the normal pace due to the time of day. Despite the bland disguise of being a normal Ford, drivers bailed out of the way of a quick moving undercover cop car. 

Carisi had taken the time to get to know you. 

He realized it was hard to keep both eyes on the road the whole drive with you seatbelted in beside him. The heaters worked double to keep you warm as he asked about your roommate, your family, your job. Like a sponge, Dominick listened to your every word, lost in the soft, supple tone of your voice. You loved your friends and family blindly, every word rung proud with nothing but adoration. 

To _your_ enjoyment, he littered in special facts about himself on the drive too. Your stories inspired his stories. You learned he’s quite Catholic, his favorite color is blue. Several sisters. When you say your stepfather works for some time at the 63rd in Brooklyn as a patrol chief, he tells you he works the 16th precinct Special Victims Unit. 

His accent is heavy, in a way you know your stepdad won’t like. His disdain for the city, and the city’s police, stems from rotten cases of his own past. Carisi unfortunately was both, wrapped up neatly into one. But you like it, every sweet phonic and baritone joke. 

Sports, of all topics, severed away into your conversation.

“Just baseball.” You rub a finger around the edge of the martini glass before you, lined with sugar and lemons. “We’re not big sports fans, except for Boston.”

“You’re very lucky you’re so cute,” he says, studying your face until his pants pocket starts chiming. He sets down his drink and fumbles for the phone, “otherwise, I’d be packin’ up shop.”

“Oh, I could convince you to stay.” 

There’s confidence in the way you speak over your martini, sipping something sweet and just about gone. When you go to sit the glass down, he grabs your freed hand, leaning across the table. He’s in your eyeline now, with a grin, and something sexy brewing in the look he delivers down to you. The breath in your lungs gets harder to catch. 

“It's going to take more than being a dirty Sox fan to run me off.” Dominick says, bonking his skull lightly against yours once before pulling back to glance down at his screen. “Stay right here. Eat your veggies.”

And then he’s answering the call with a staccato: “ _Carisi.”_

You’re left alone, mildly hot and bothered. You wiggle once in your seat. For one second you thought he might just kiss you like that, but the anticipation tasted better than the drink you finished off in his absence. You’re on your second to last carrot when you hear his feet coming back, sliding back into the table.

He doesn’t look as happy. 

“Is everything okay?” You wonder aloud, observant of the worry that glosses over his demeanor. Sonny pockets his phone and hums back lowly, like the words are stuck to his tongue and he’s trying to pick the right ones to pluck. You hold his gaze over a flickering candle. 

“The case.” He breaks, incapable of resisting your curiosity. “It’s driving my squad, our bosses — hell, the _mayor_ — crazy.”

“Are there any new leads? The last . . .” you pause, unsure how describe the horror, “. . . _murder_ was over two weeks ago.” You count the days, thinking back to a normal Wednesday in early November. Your head chef had pulled all the women aside, and reminded them of the safety rules of traveling in the city. Never leave the restaurant alone. Always carry your keys. Aim to maim.

Dominick is surprised in your willingness to discuss something like this. Mixing work with pleasure was a dangerous game, but you lean your head on your chin, inquisitively waiting. 

“There’s been no further activity with our perp. All of our DNA is either inconclusive, or, due to the high volume area, hard to match, and trust me, we tried.” He sighs. “Doesn’t matter if we have it, if we don’t know who it belongs to. Our victims are all unlinked.”

“What about the guy in the red hat?”

“He hasn’t been seen since.” He rivals, taking a bite in between thoughts.

“Well, if I had to take a guess,” you say, tapping a finger on your chin in contemplation. You think about the very little information you’d been given, and think of what your father would think, and provide this: “it’s certainly someone who’s done this before. No trace, no leads? He’s good. He’s experienced.”

Detective Carisi blinks twice. 

“You’re right. We’ve got a serial profiler examining the details too, in case there’s a pattern from out of state. Our killer is a predator.”

“Maybe it’s Crabby Joey.” You jest, thinking of the bum that wanders into _Better Batter_ on a bender at least once a month. Always belligérant, always a racist. He’s done enough damage to property by breaking things or pissing on them that he’s no longer allowed around or in the diner. “ _Though_ , his hands shake too much from the coke. He wouldn’t be able to hold a weapon.”

Dominick laughs a little as finishes off his drink, resting both elbows on the table in an attempt to get closer to you. He’s enamored by your interest in his job, but knows he can’t really say much else. Especially with you being on record as a part of the investigation; your statement neatly filed in a cabinet next to his desk. 

“Enough about work.” He glances at your plate, all cleaned up nicely, and smiles bright. “What d’ya say we go somewhere else?”

* * *

 **DESPERADOS PUB  
** **1828 SILVERFISH AVENUE  
** **MANHATTAN, NEW YORK  
** **FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 20TH**

* * *

The ride to _Desperados_ _Pub_ was much faster than the trip to Yonkers. 

You’ve just nailed the shot to break when Dominick comes back from the bar with your beer, and something else for himself too. He sees you decide to strike and sink the orange 5 in the back right corner pocket before standing straight to greet him, showing what sort of competition he was up against. He’s lucky he’s got years on you in bar life, because the last round was nearly lost.

“What are we betting for?” Carisi hands off your beverage, simultaneously taking the pool cue from your grasp. He turns to face the table, picking a pocket. His gaze scans the patrons surrounding them too, and notices the bar had cleared by half. He’s not sure what time it was at this point, if night had turned to day. He would need to be back at the precinct in a few hours. “I already won 10 bucks off you.”

“You distracted me.” You flush as you tell the truth. When the two of you had arrived at the swanky bar nestled away in upper Manhattan, a bit overdressed, you were full of food, energy and a lemon drop. The hall was decorated with portraits of athletes, celebrities and musicians, lit with neon and bar bulbs. Several pool tables were vacated, except for one.

The two of you had locked it down before anyone else.

“Now,” he sinks the blue 10 ball with ease, standing back up beside you to hand the cue back. You’re close enough to breathe in the same air, and your eyes dart from his, to his lips, as his free and _warm_ hand hovers your spine, “how could I ‘ave distracted _you_?”

Your at a loss for words now, feeling a little clouded. It had been a dancing game back and forth between the two of you all night -- soft grazes, little glances. You’d been thoroughly teased by touch alone, dined and doted on. It had been a while since someone so new made you feel so special.

Was he waiting for you to make the move?

“I think you know.” You would try not give him the satisfaction. Instead, you move out of his grasp and keep playing. You _try_ to not think about how handsome he looks before you, sweater sleeves rolled up, hair a little rowdy from the night’s events. Your pulse races halfway through taking a careless shot, surprised as it pockets without a problem. His fingers tug at a ringlet of hair on your shoulders gently.

“Oh, _tesora._ ” He laughs close to your ear. Later, you wouldn’t be able to decide if it was the Italian or the way he delivers it that tips you over the edge. “That was my ball.”

You flicker between the table and him, the evidence of your error in the hole. 

Slowly you sling the cue into the other hand, and don’t think twice as you grab at his shirt. The air between your bodies was extinguished. You try to make a perturbed face at Sonny’s unfair prodding, fingertips like white lightning on your skin, and go to chew him out for it -- but there’s a smile on his face as he kisses you before you can start. Or maybe you kiss him, for the very first time. It's soft and sweet as Dominick’s hands hold of your jaw, stealing away all the remaining thoughts from your head. Like you might leave if he doesn’t anchor you here. 

He leads your backside to the pool table when your knees wobble, needing the stability. You know you look like teenagers, entangled with such wanton public affection. But his hands find the curves of your hips as he pulls away from the kiss, happy being nose to nose. Your breath comes in little pants.

“You were saying?” The adrenaline rush makes you giggle. “I’ll pretend I didn’t see it.”

“I think I lost anyways.” You lean a little farther back on the table to fawn at him better. Sonny’s sturdy pelvic bone _almost_ pins you between the green top and a pair of strong thighs. Your toes curl in your boots at the thought.

You end up wrapping the game up early, with the bar calling for a final round within the hour. The two of you had hit a high top to finish your drinks in peace, entertaining a little more light conversation together. As you’d bundled back into your coat by the front door, he helped snap the final brass button shut before his hand found yours. 

He rarely let it go, except to shift gears and adjust the heater. The drive back to your apartment was cozy and bereft of conversation, environment peaceful enough that there was no need. Dominick spends half the time thinking of how strange but exhilarating your time together had been, how soft your hand feels as his thumb rubs circles into the flesh.

“Would you like to come inside?” You ask as he walks you to your front door, the silence of early morning making you speak soft. The city’s temperature was low enough you could see your own breath. The sound of a TV gets louder as you approach, alerting you to your roommates late night Netflix binge.

Dominick flicks a piece of hair from your face, blocking him from all that beauty. He wants to follow you inside, find out more of what makes you tick. He could spend a few more hours learning the way you exist, the way you’d kiss him with no one around. But he’s a good man who’s worked in SVU long enough to know the _actual_ line of right and wrong, and he can still taste liquor on your mouth when he pecks you once, twice, and a third time for good measure.

“I have to be back to the precinct in,” he glances at his watch, and huffs out a thick stream of air, “three hours.”

“Oh!” Your face reads as shocked. “You need some rest, Sonny, don’t let me hold you up.”

“Sweetheart,” he squishes your cheeks in his palm, thumb and forefinger snuggled on tight, making sure you hear him, “you’re worth it.”

You don’t have the time to burn red, to say something clever back, before he’s got you in a different kind of kiss. There’s heat here. Your arms snake into his coat around a sturdy torso, burning you up on the stoop. A pitiful whimper befalls your lips, and its all over before you can try to hold on.

“Go get warm.” He murmurs into the night. His direction is one of a few different orders he’d given you -- _be safe at night, eat your vegetables, stay right there._ You don’t mind it, familiar to the way cops handle any sort of business. Promptly, with superintendence. His concern pulls at the strings of your heart.

“Goodnight, Detective.” You say, after unlocking your door and patting his cheek softly. You can hear Vivian stir from the couch. “Sleep well.”

“Goodnight.” He replies, sounding a little breathless himself.

It takes a moment after the door closes for you to move, but your roommate already bounds towards you like the faithful friend she is, meeting you halfway. Vivian’s in a pair of mismatched pajamas, hair up and a little wet from a shower. There’s still bits of a face mask on her chin. 

“ _. . . so_? I didn’t stay up this late for you to not share before bedtime. I made tea.”

You have a feeling you’re not going to get very much sleep yourself.

* * *

 **BETTER BATTER DINER & BAKERY  
** **6344 LIMBAUGH AVENUE  
** **MANHATTAN, NEW YORK  
** **FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 27TH**

* * *

It had been an exhausting week for you _and_ Dominick. 

The weekend before Thanksgiving brought all sorts of characters into the restaurant -- families forming and reuniting like blobs, kids squabbling up and down the isles. The weather had finally taken a turn for the worst, reaching record lows. Coffee sales were incomparable, enough to pay the heat bill a few times over. The wait staff of _Better Batter_ had fought a gruesome fight. 

At the precinct, the hunt for a killer ran cold. With no more bodies matching the perp’s MO, the newcomer Dodds had been the one to suggest their guy had been spooked by police and media coverage. Every single detective on the squad had devoted time into reviewing the evidence multiple times again and again, but there was nothing palpable to help them solve this case. Carisi could feel Benson swallowing her tongue under the harsh lash of reprimand for no performance.

Sonny confides this to you over lunch on Tuesday. 

It had been your idea; a few silly texts back and forth leading to your proposition. First, he accompanied his Staff Sergeant to a meeting with the chief of police and the mayor, and had arrived at the little pizzeria close to the precinct in his traditional cop uniform, navy service cap and all. He’d stuck out like a sore thumb like that, but the relaxed expression on his face after the first few bites of cheese and dough made it worth the looks. 

“I’m sorry about your case.” You’d said, nudging your foot against his beneath the table.

Then came the final Thursday of November. Your Thanksgiving day was full of Vivian’s amazing technique in Javiar’s kitchen, assisting in the masterpiece she would call dinner. With your mother and father on a boat off the coast of Maine, you graciously surrounded yourself with your second family. In the spirit of the holidays, you had made sure to call your parents early in the morning, and Dominick further into the evening.

“Are you having fun?” You asked Sonny, exiting the living room as to avoid any of your friends acting a fool on purpose. 

“Yes I am.” You could hear his smile through the receiver. “Bella is here -- you met her, _very_ pregnant -- and my other sisters too. I was just thinking you would like them.”

You carry that thought with you into the next day. 

In the hustle and bustle of the week before, the day after _any_ holiday was bleak and slow. Your normal tip revenue was sliced in half, and it soured your mood into the evening. You end up locking the front doors at 10 on the dot, wiping your hands down your apron. The restaurant had been a ghost town for the last hour, no patrons left to entertain you. 

Mia and your manager, Diego, finish up any housekeeping to Christmas jingles still blasting over the speakers, while you restock and quickly check your phone.
    
    
    Sonny 9:40PM  
    
    _Coffee tomorrow?_

Your spirits lift from ground floor to the penthouse, typing back without hesitation. You wouldn’t have to be back into the restaurant until 3, leaving lots of time for his schedule too. You think of coffee shops in between your home and his for your third date while you collect trash bags from around the store.

“I’m going to lock up completely, so go leave your uniform for dry cleaning and take those out back.” Diego says in a rush, already shutting off lights throughout the place. You know his desire to leave is in his wife and newborn at home, so you quickly take off to change into your jeans and a grey college t-shirt, unhooking your dark jacket from the wire. On your way to the back, you twist and pull the bags of trash on the journey.

The backdoor shuts behind you when you get to the dumpsters. It reeks of old food and discarded cigarettes back here, making the hairs in your nose burn. You deposit the trash correctly, feeling entirely too dirty, but knowing the restaurant was locked and empty behind you. You would have to shower as soon as you get home --

_Bzz bzz._

You grab your phone, the light illuminating you and your surroundings. Small snow flecks decorate the screen. Dominick had sent you nothing more than a thumbs up. Judging by the time, you assume he’s still at work, more and more familiar with his hours as the days knowing him go by. The detective didn’t have a lot of time to himself, which made you feel delighted when he used them to engage with you.

You look up from your phone screen, across the alleyway, when something reflective catches your eye. The red OPEN light of _Gianni’s_ bleeds over a gently crowded street -- a few customers drinking merrily in the window, a guitarist playing a rock cover of a pop song a few shops down, and a man in a red hat lighting a cigar.

You don’t register what you’re seeing for a moment, but then it hits like a punch to the nose. You're frozen in your shoes, trying to decide what to do. Retreat? Call Dominick? Call the police? 

What if he leaves before they can get here?

With shaking, anxious hands, you quietly take a few steps closer to the gate dividing you from the street. You step out from behind it like a mouse, still blanketed in shadow. A block away was a safe enough distance, you think, and use your phone to open the camera. You hold your breath as you pinch the screen and zoom, trying to get the clearest shot of what you were seeing before you. With this resolution, you could count the wrinkles by his eyes. 

_Clck!_

You're horrified as the phone makes noise, forgetting to turn the volume off. The city wasn’t quiet by any means, horns honking, people talking. But the street wasn’t high volume, and the man looks your way in the next moment.

“Hey,” Your heart hammers, hurting your ribs, “did you just take a picture of me, girl?”

You take one step back, and something in you twists in fear as he mirrors it, creeping one foot off the curb. He flicks a big pile of tabacco from his cigar.

“Are you hard of hearing? Hey, I’m talkin’ to _you_!” 

He’s getting a little redder in the face, and you take another few steps back to the gate of _Better Batter_ , feeling the cool steel. You hear his feet move again, fast and engaging, and every instinct in you to flee hits the nail on the head. You turn back around to start a beeline for the opposite direction, shutting the gate behind you, but your sneakers catch the corner of a pile of poorly discarded cake boxes.

Hitting the dirt makes you yelp, hands aching from bracing you. The bones in your arms feel shock, phone and keys crunching into the old concrete beneath your palms. Without a doubt you shattered the screen. You grab at what pieces of it you can in the dark, pads of your feet launching you from _Better Batter_ into the street. If he was following you, he’d have to be quicker.

You don’t stop running until you see a 7-11. 

Plowing through the door, the bright white lights nearly blind you. The smell of processed food, sanitizer and body odor seeps from the vents. You lean against the door, not caring, not _daring_ to look behind you. While you gasp and try to keep wind in your lungs, the convenience attendant leans over the counter, eyebrows inquisitive.

“Ya’ alright there?”

“Yeah.” You breathe. Calling Dominick was the next step. “Do you have a payphone?”

“Yeah.” He says back. “It takes quarters though.”

You use the hand with the keys to feel around your pockets. Disdain for yourself settles into your gut when emptiness meets your fingertips at every turn. Your wallet must have fallen out at the restaurant or on the run.

For such a sweet looking lady, the shopkeep is shocked to hear you say so many bad words at once. You’re gone right after that, throwing the glass doors open and taking back to the inclimate environment. You know the area well, Manhattan a familiar maze of streets and iridescent stop lights. 

With no intention of going back the way you came, your legs mindlessly carry you on the trek towards the precinct.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> decided to stay up late even though i work in four hours bc im having surgery on monday and i wanted this to see the light of day before i go under haha. let me know what you thought below xoxoxo
> 
> \-- bagels


	5. Oil & Vinegar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You get dragged into the investigation.
> 
> or, Carisi fingers you at sunrise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> when i write this fic i tend to listen hits from the 00s which is really funny bc it seems like a style of music thats so out of date rn but helps me get into the mindset really well? like hell yeah timbaland, get the fresh beats bumping while i pop off??? go brit go jt bring sexy back????? everytime i surprise myself by outwriting the last chapter.
> 
> ps *banging the drum* watch the tags from now on!! there's a small handful ( pun intended ) of smut in here this aint my first trip to the rodeo ( haha as if this is even my main account ) so i apologize ( not really ) in advance for the FILTH ♥️
> 
> xx bagels

* * *

**PRECINCT 16  
** **OFFICES OF THE SPECIAL VICTIMS UNIT  
** **MANHATTAN, NEW YORK  
** **MONDAY, NOVEMBER 28TH**

* * *

A pretty, young cop at the front desk abandons her _People_ magazine and stands abruptly as you barrel in; a flurry of movement and speed. The sky nears purple, snowstorm following you in, great gusts of wind trailing snow onto the marble floor. The heaters pump stale air around the building, burning the bits of exposed skin you have left. Almost-frosted eyelashes flutter to the height of your cheekbones, trying to clear up your vision. 

“Ma’am?” The receptionist leans over the desk, sizing you up. “Can I help you at all?”

“Y-yes.” You stumble over to her on bone-weary feet, sneakers squealing, taking heaps of air with you. The weather has chilled you inside and out, deep down into your lungs. You try to collect your bearings for an explanation — you _try_ to regain feeling in your fingertips, still clenching the shattered phone and keys in the damp trenches of your jacket pocket. “I’m looking for D-Detective Carisi?”

The cop looks uncomfortable, hand hovering over a walkie talkie strapped to her chest. 

“We have a lot of detectives here, ma’am. Do you know what division of work he’s in?”

“Special Victims. I have . . .” A chill runs down your spine, making your heart flutter irregularly and pause, “something important for a c-case. It can’t wait.”

“That’s on the 5th floor.” She says immediately, coming out and around the desk. There’s something subdued and careful as she places a tentative hand on your shoulder, dusting off the wetness there. You find security in her expression and sink into the touch, hot palms doing a number to your frigid body. “I’ll show you the way.”

The precinct is in an abnormal hush as you’re led through the hallways. A corded phone rings as the only noise to disturb peace. You remember running around a department not unlike this as a preteen in Buffalo, on the nights where your mother would come collect your stepfather from his desk with a no bullshit front and Chinese food in the backseat.

This felt . . . _homier_ , like it was designed with the idea of being a safe environment first, over just another government building.

When the steel elevator doors _ding!_ and pop open on the 5th floor, you can see several of the lights are already off. Offices were emptied out by the witching hour, only one pair of lingering bodies near, no interrogations or arrests being filed. The night crew must be out and about. 

You’re able to wiggle your toes one by one in your shoes when the cop shows you into a wide open pit of desks, neatly lined and lamp lit. Dimmed computer screens highlight a full white board as you pass by, some of the details recognizable by the red tape and pictures pinned.

In the end, you stand before one of the only offices with the lights still on, door shut and blinds drawn. You’re reading the gold office plaque for _SGT. BENSON_ as your escort knocks twice. 

Someone replies: “ _It’s open!_ ”

The door swings ajar, and from where you wait patiently in the hall, you can see a pack of detectives on the other side. Two of them hover over one thick yellow folder, like inside the pages held a secret treasure. There’s a lovely looking woman in a deep navy pantsuit resting against the desk, glancing between you and the receptionist. A man in a pair of suspenders and dark slacks reclines contemplatively in the chair behind her. 

No Sonny.

“Sorry for interrupting, Staff Sergeant. This young lady is looking for a Detective in your unit; she has information on a case?”

“Yes, of course . . . come in, we were just finishing up.” The folder snaps closed and is set aside — Detective Benson gives you her undivided attention. “How can I help you?”

“I’m looking for Detective Carisi.” You say again, glad the words come out with no stutter. You step into the room completely and replace the escort, shoes leaving wet tracks on the flooring. “I have —”

Your own name cuts you off. 

You hadn’t noticed Dominick was there at first, lounging on a black, pricy couch to your left. He was already buttoned up in a coal trench coat, gloves on, ready to wrap up another exhausting day. The only reason he hadn’t left yet was to avoid the harsh snow storm brewing outside -- but he sees _you_ , skin a sickly pallor, dripping from melting snow. Your clothes are soaked with it, hair slick to your face and neck. Your breath comes out in uneven pants, nostrils red and inflamed. 

He moves his briefcase off his lap, folders and papers scattering onto the leather. Sonny crowds your space in two strides.

“What are you . . . are you _okay_ ?” Blue eyes dart around your face, searching your expression for any sign of fear or pain. The last thing he expected when the door had opened at midnight was to see you here, looking disheveled and so very _cold_. He wants to reach out and strip the sopping jacket from your shoulders, but he can feel Barba and Benson’s unwavering stares. 

“Carisi — who’s this?” Rafael queries.

“She’s — we — a waitress, near where we found one of the vics.”

Your story comes out in a rushed garble, before you can stop it. The simmering vents giving back life to your body. 

“My phone broke, and I lost my w-wallet — so I didn’t have your business card to call when I got to — well — let me backup, I was closing _Better Batter_ , taking the trash out, and I could see _Gianni’s_ —”

“Wait,” Rafael blinks to the folder Olivia had just set aside, then back to you, resting a hand beneath his chin, “ _Gianni’s_ , like the —”

“— the bar, yeah . . .” you continue, nodding vigorously at the stranger’s assumption, “I was taking out the trash, a-and I saw the man from the photo, the one with the red hat — so I tried to help, _really_ , but I think I just made it worse —”

“Hold on, hold on,” The Staff Sergeant is far less relaxed as you fall more and more into your situation. Dominick doesn’t move aside as she comes before you too, like a six foot unmoving wall with some sort of _fire_ brimming in his eyes, “let’s take this one step at time. Did this man harm you in any way?”

“No.” Carisi blows out a puff of air, like he’d been holding his breath in a cage. “He just yelled at me. I took a picture of him, and the p-phone made a noise, so he —”

Now the ADA sits up in Olivia’s chair, hands gripped to the edge of the desk.

“You _got_ a picture of him?”

“Yes. A good one. But he started coming towards me, so I ran away as fast as I could. I-I fell, and I broke it and . . .” You finally reveal your folly, slinking your hands from your pockets for the first time since hitting the pavement. The phone is scrambled like eggs, screen battered and soaked with snow and rust. In the fine light of the office, you see raw and bleeding abrasions in the wake of bits of glass and concrete. The cold had numbed you to any pain. 

You go to hand it off to Detective Benson, but Sonny spots something and grabs for you now, blocking you by the wrist. He drags the stained sleeve down to your elbow, unveiling another gash in your forearm that bleeds freely without being restrained. 

“Alright . . . here’s what we’re going to do . . .” The gears in the Sergeants head turn and grind, formulating a plan. She delicately takes the phone from you, all the broken bits and pieces, hoping to not destroy any sort of evidence in the process, “— you did a _good_ thing by coming here with this. Why doesn’t Detective Carisi take you into another room, get you cleaned up and warm, and then we can get your official statement? I’ll make sure this gets into the right hands, right now, and we’ll see what we can find from there.”

“Okay.” You breathe, looking to Sonny for guidance. Your beautiful pair of doe eyes are unsure and unaware of what was to come, striking him. He can’t resist now, letting go of your wrist to briefly thumb your chin instead. You would be okay.

Detective Benson stalks back around to her desk, shedding her coat on the way. She continues into the next thought, eyes piercing the two of you from over her glasses. 

“Time to make some wake up calls; I want Tutuola and Dodds back here within the hour.” Barba already moves out of the way with his cellphone in hand as she reaches for her own. “I want a squad car on every block looking for this guy, I want someone patrolling for this missing wallet, _and_ , I want some coffee if I’m waking up the Chief.”

“I can help with some of that.” The ADA chimes in briskly, clicking away on his screen. 

“Miss . . .” Olivia realizes she doesn’t know your name yet, so you introduce yourself as she sits. She repeats it back once, “. . . is there anyone you would like us to call? Your phone is in our custody now, so we can help you get connected to any family that might wonder where you are.”

“My roommate.” You nod. “She’s probably already concerned with where I am. I know her number.”

“Okay then, Carisi, you know the drill. Make sure she can reach whoever she needs.” Detective Benson instructs, fingering a number into the mainline phone herself. She would let Rollins sleep a little longer, especially since desk duty was still her current forte; Fin, Sonny and Mike would be enough to lead up an early morning canvassing. 

Dominick agrees to your assistance, without a second glance, and leads you out of the room with a hand between your shoulder blades. Olivia assumes he wouldn’t need much more direction when it came to your care.

You know the looks of an interrogation room when you see one, and this felt _nothing_ like it. The tables and chairs were expensive wood and leather, decor tinted in orange and burgundy accents. A few bookshelves line the walls, volumes of psychology and anatomy textbooks thick and thin. It felt more like a study in a collegiate setting than a place of spoken horrors.

You’d been given a spare set of clothes to change into. Life offered you simple pleasures from time to time -- this was one of those moments, of dry material. It wasn’t the most fashionable ensemble, much too big sweatpants you have to roll over your hips twice, and a blank green ARMY t-shirt. But it beat the icy mess wrapped up in a plastic bag on the floor. 

When you give him the clear, Dominick enters with two cups of coffee in one big hand, and a white, plastic first aid kit box in the other. He sets everything down, then plops in the chair beside you. 

“I guess it's true that ‘anything can happen in a New York minute’.” He breaks the ice, holding out his palm for yours. “Lemme see.”

After looking over it himself, Sonny starts dabbing hydrogen peroxide onto a clean gauze pad. You lay your arm on the table for examination; there was little to no pain, more of a superficial flesh lesion than anything to really complain over. You had worse injuries on the floor of the restaurant than this -- sharp knives grazing knuckles, scalding coffee burns, slip and falls. 

“It doesn’t hurt.” You don’t say it to sound tough — only to ease the tension on his face. “Really. It was my own fault anyways, or, well, whichever one of my idiot coworkers left boxes in the wrong spot.”

“That’s good news.” He starts applying the solution, and _now_ it burns, bubbling at the source of bacteria. Your fingers twitch and twist in his grip, but he doesn’t let go. Sonny just applies the chemical even more gently instead, feeling the temperature of your skin flourish as the minutes tick by. “I gotta say, you had me anxious for a minute there.”

“I’m a big girl.” You tease, but for once he doesn’t laugh back. There’s a gravity on this situation, you remember. Real, actual danger. You assume you're both thinking the same thing — this was an event that would shift the entire case, steps already in motion to locate this man before the sunrise. You wonder if your phone is salvageable. You wonder about your wallet.

“Tell me what happened.” Dominick slithers through your train of thought, already done squeezing opaque little droplets of Neosporin on the wounds. 

“Don’t you need to be writing this down?” You question. He smirks to himself, peeling apart bandage wrappers. 

“Tell _me_ what happened.” His hands are incredibly careful when he begins to wrap yours, bright eyes finally leaving his work to meet yours. “You’re gonna have to repeat it to Sergeant Benson again on record later.”

So you do, recalling every detail from locking the doors to the restaurant, to hauling stinky trash to the dumpster, to spotting the man in the street, to the 7-11, and then the precinct. You describe the man in more detail than any of the bar patrons from the first investigation could have, even the tone of his voice.

“He was smoking a cigar, not a cigarette.” You state, twiddling your hand in Dominick’s. He’d done an excellent job of taking to your scrapes, and opted for squeezing your fingers as you told your story. The least you could do would be to do an excellent job at remembering. “He had an accent.”

“What kind? City? Upstate?”

“City.” You struggle to pick a location, your brain already feeling weighted by the hour. It creeps closer to 2 in the morning as you discuss the man in the red hat. On the other side of the door, some of the lights flicker and burst to life. You smell freshly brewed coffee grounds. You assume the brigade Sergeant Benson had called in was arriving on time. “Queens? Brooklyn maybe?”

“Was there anyone else around to, ya know, commemorate your story? A coworker, maybe, a manager?” He interrogates you further, pads of his fingers dancing past your wounds and up to the crease of your elbow. The gesture is sympathetic and kind, making your heart dance along the veins he traces a pattern into.

“No. Just me.” 

His fingers halt right there, his expression darkening enough you notice the change.

“I know it’s not my place, as your . . .” Sonny struggles to pick a word. You weren’t lovers, not _yet_ , nor boyfriend and girlfriend. But you meant more to him than a friend. He knows his own world would rock sideways and dive without you in it anymore, which is why he continues, “-- _anyways_ , it’s not my place, Dollface. But until this is all over, I urge ya’ to take a _few_ days off work. Just until we can bring h --”

You snatch your hand back from him, crossing your arms over your chest like a branded shield.

“No.” You frown, bottom lip pouting out. “Why? Isn’t that just giving the power to the bad guy? I’m not afraid. I doubt he even saw my face --”

“-- if he did or did not isn’t the point.” Carisi argues back cautiously, feeling you turn all sorts of sharp and spiky in front of him. He’d spent enough time with you in the rendezvous around New York City to know fear wasn’t something you engaged with lightly. He assumes it was in your upbringing, your stepfather and his badge shaping your fearlessness. There’s a stubborn haze in the look you throw at him too, unwavering and suspicious. He wonders if you get that from your mother.

Dominick rubs a free hand down his face, taming his own feelings the best he can.

“If you’re not gonna take off work, at least _promise me_ you won’t travel alone anymore, yeah?”

You don’t say anything at first, just holding his gaze. His blue eyes are melting, hypnotizing you into bending.

“It’s not that easy.” You think of Vivian and your aggravatingly opposite schedules. Try as you might, some nights she would leave first, covered in cake batter and sweat, and then you, or vise versa. Some days neither of you worked the same times, day or night. Unless your handsome detective planned on picking you up and taking you home every day, which you highly doubted, it wasn’t a feasible option. “I have to pay rent. I have bills, expenses -- sometimes that means taking the subway home alone or hailing a cab in the middle of the night --”

“An’ I get that, I just . . . _don’t_ wanna see anything happen to you, okay?” Sonny is honest, warming you up from the center far better than any anxiety blanket they offered could. You wish you hadn’t pulled your hands away from his, but they stay folded delicately in your lap instead. “This alone was enough for me; you’re too involved already. We don’t know a thing about this guy.”

“I’m sorry.” Is all you can say, and you mean it. You can’t imagine what working on this particular case is like -- here and there he had slid in awful details to you about it; how gruesome, how _heinous_. Women brutally raped and dismembered, discarded into the dirt like valueless objects, not people. And now here you sat, tangled in the silky webs of it too, with more compelling evidence in a ziplock baggie than they’d been given so far. 

You feel sick with the details, imagining the situation in reverse, finding yourself mildly impressed by Carisi’s capability for handling it so well.

“How about next time I see a suspect, I just run the opposite direction?” You try, eyebrows raising high in the haste of the deal. “Scouts honor, or whatever.”

“How ‘bout you don’t go around _seeing_ suspects at all?” His eyes are still hooded and dark with anxiety, even when the corner of his mouth twitches up just a little.

“I will go out of my way to try to avoid seeing suspects.” You try again, and despite his frustration, the other corner of his mouth lifts into a smile too. He likes your peaceful conversations, but the challenge here was enjoyable too. He wanted to shake your shoulders until some good old fashioned common sense loops in your brain, or maybe kiss away the smart remarks zinging off his favorite pair of lips. 

One thing was for sure -- the man in the red hat would _never_ get in 100 feet of you again if he saw to it.

There’s a knock at the door a few minutes later, after the conversation between the two of you had morphed into a playful banter. The hour dial on the clock continues to pace onwards as the Staff Sergeant and Sonny have you repeat the events of the night, for the official record this time. You don’t miss many details in your thorough retelling, the perfect witness. 

By 3 am, your head had found a sweet, dry crevice of your arm, fatigue begging to take you under the waves. The detectives had left you here to your thoughts when the familiar pretty, pregnant blonde cop arrived on the clock, interrupting with a distressed, “Hey, Sarg? Can I speak with you privately?” 

It’s another half an hour before the door reopens. 

Detective Carisi goes to speak, to tell you the good news, but you succumbed to sleep on the table. The grooves of the wood leave intricate marks on delicate skin. The bones of your shoulder blades rise and fall with every deep, unconscious breath. It was time to get you home.

“Alright, [_dormigliona_](/),” he chuckles more to himself than you, recalling the way his own mother used to say it, “up and at ‘em.” 

Sonny comes behind you to grab under the dips of your arms. The feeling of his hot palms alone shake you awake, upright and alert. But those same warm hands sweep damp locks of your hair to the side, then down your exposed biceps, leaving goosebumps in the wake. Gentle.

“I’m sorry.” You say for the second time tonight, bringing your palm to rest on his. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep.”

“It’s okay. It’s very early.” With no one else around but the two of you, he delivers a quick kiss to the top of your head, helping you on two wobbling feet. “I’m going to take you back to your apartment. We found your wallet outside of _Better Batter_ , and the cell phone wasn’t completely damaged -- we got the picture.”

You whirl around in his arms, expression lighting up despite the dark circles threatening to discredit your elation.

“You _did_?”

“Yes.” He smiles back, clearing the strands of hair from where it covers your face. “Couldn’t've gotten a clearer shot for us. They’ll do an official press release in a few hours. All of New York is going to get a good look at this bastard.”

* * *

 **CLEARSIDE APARTMENTS  
** **9001 CLEARSIDE DRIVE APT #417  
** **MANHATTAN, NEW YORK  
** **MONDAY, NOVEMBER 28TH**

* * *

Dominick lifts his wrist to his eyes, watch-face fuzzy and impossible to read in the darkness of your living room. He’s not sure exactly what time it is anymore -- the day is rising from a dark indigo sky full of stars, to purple and tan hues as day threatens to break. A bird chirps from the maple branches outside the window. This is the only indication that he would have to be leaving soon.

After taking the elevator down to the precinct garage, you’d fallen right back to sleep as soon as your head hit the leather of the squad car passenger seat. Sonny was surprised how easy you could curl up and pass out on command, seatbelted in a bit incorrectly for the favor of comfort. But he just drove extra vigilantly instead of trying to keep you up, missing potholes and speed bumps.

Somehow, he’d ended up here beneath you. The old, grass green couch in your living room wasn’t the most comfortable thing, or most attractive if he was being honest. But it was large enough that one of his legs stayed on, the other resting comfortable on the wooden floor. Shoes discarded, white long sleeves rolled up far enough that his forearms would feel your finally frost-free skin as he held you. Sonny dared not move a muscle in the last few hours, knuckles tracing little shapes on your back in and out of sleep.

Dropping you off became an impossible feat when you had said, “Come inside? Just to rest.” with eyes so trusting, so welcoming, so _tired_ , how was he to refuse? He partially wonders if the entire ordeal had spooked you more than you were letting on, but instead of asking, he just sent Benson _and_ Rollins a text that he would be back as soon as the press release went live, working on maintaining your mental state before leaving. Olivia had sent a thumbs up back.

Then he’d followed you into the small environment willingly.

Dominick is a smart man; he knows this isn’t the best idea anymore. It was an easier situation for the both of you when he was just a cop in a diner, a waitress at work, a man and a woman on a date. But now you’re an evidence wheeling witness in this repulsive investigation he _knows_ will go to the Supreme Court, someday soon. 

While you had begun to drift soundlessly at the precinct, Benson had pulled him aside to provide some minor insight on what was to come, like a bloodhound to misconduct -- relationships got messy in cases like this. He might need to pick and choose where his dedication would lay now, before catching, and arranging their main suspect. Was he better off now just the boyfriend, or the detective?

He’s got the tv muted now, as he contemplates in silence; you had put the news on politely as soon as you’d gotten home, before slipping unconscious on his shoulder. In the darkness of the morning, Sonny maneuvered you both towards the conquest of comfort, feeling your body rise and fall on his chest. There’s locks of your hair blanketing around his collar and shoulders, body sprawled on top of him like pure dead weight. But you smell fresh and pretty, like his favorite things all wrapped into one, every once and a while whispering something incoherent from your dreams. 

He’d slept for maybe an hour.

He was used to only feeling a few blinks of rest, biological alarm clock helping him rise with the new day every day. But you stayed mildly incoherent on top of him for the duration of his stay, dainty arms in an embrace around his center, tight as a sarcophagus. He’s been thinking of ways to dislodge your arms so he can make his leave without waking you, but your face finds the crook of his neck in your slumber suddenly, wrestling with the day, and he’s toast.

“Sonny?” You whisper it against his jaw, and he finally takes a large, rocking breath. He’s trying to be incredibly good, hands on your back, rubbing down the xylophone your ribs make, and nowhere else. But you’re nuzzling at that same spot with your nose, stubbly with the time, never letting up on the way you hold him tight. “What time is it?”

“Almost 7.” He turns his head to the right just a little, his forehead gently bopping yours in the dark. “Did I wake you?”

“No.” You say quietly, heat simmering in you like wildfire. Your dream had been a mosh-posh of events -- a red hat on a skeleton body, a vague conversation with your dream-state mother, and a hormonal end with your favorite Detective. You could barely pick apart the pieces anymore, just the feeling. Exquisite. Toe-curling.

Your bandaged hands brace on either side of Sonny’s head as you sit up, striding along his lap. Shifting to the realm of more awake than sleepy, you feel confident as you stretch high above your head. Your body weight presses hot heat _down_ into his pelvic bone, wiggling a little, bones of your spine popping in the stretch.

It’s _too much_ , too early, and his own hands dip lower now, to the seam of your pajama bottoms and onto the squishy, tender skin of your ass. Your breath stutters as he squeezes the muscle there, nowhere near as soft as you were used to by him. It wakes you up like caffeine directly to the veins, all your private parts tingling in harmony. You can’t get squirm away in this kind of grip.

“Do you have to leave?” You dip down to kiss at his mouth, little pecks in an attempt to drive him wild right here, right now. You know Vivian is fast asleep somewhere down the hall -- the sound of her streaming service still playing on into the morning. You’re glad she’d gone to bed after receiving your call from the precinct, allowing you some alone time now with Dominick.

“Yes.” He admits, fingers dancing dangerously close to the crease of your legs and pelvic floor, exploring. You gasp against his lips as his big hands massage at your thighs next, lower to the knee cap tucked around his chest. Kneading the flesh. “After the mornin’ news releases his picture, it’ll be m-mayhem; false leads, fake --”

He’s surprised by his own moan as you move your kisses from his lips, to his angular jaw, into the crevice of his ear and neck. You feel the pulse point there, nibbling on it, while his hands maintain their sharp grip on your knees. Securing every bit of you _right there_ . You feel so . . . _spread out_ on wide, strong hips; so you collapse onto your forearms, both hands snagging tufts of his hair.

“Don’t leave.” You whisper into the darkness. Maybe you’re delirious with the lack of sleep, or the incredible high you feel scenting the musk of the Detective, but something in you yearns for him to stay here on this beat up, old couch with you. You could make it _worth it_ , you think to yourself, kissing him again, chewing scandalously at his bottom lip.

He knows he can’t stay, but it wasn’t 7 _yet_ , so he continues to explore you the way he wanted the night of your first date -- the way your tongue dances dirty against his, how you shudder when one hand goes hunting and finds the soft mounds of your breasts. He would send you back to your dreams in the next few minutes; _focused_ on it.

You break the tango just to writhe. Calloused fingers pinch and rub your nipples without rhythm or reason, no bra under your shirt in the way of obstructing his investigation.

There’s a moment when you go to kiss him again and the next break, where all six feet of him sits upright. The change in position makes your brain swim. Your tongue licks at his teeth, and it feels incredible to be like this, something _hot_ and hard hiding behind his zipper. You pant like an animal. You’re only upright for another second, before you’re flattened on the opposite side of the couch beneath all of his weight, tackled down to the cushions.

“I have to leave soon.” He warns in between tonguing you, one hand still gripping your breast harshly in the daybreak. The other helps slot your legs on either side of his hips; you’re happy your ankles can lock behind his lower back, roping him to you. He’d have to fight you off. Fuck the precinct -- he was _yours_. You could feel the evidence of that on your thigh.

“No.” You chuckle in his ear, teeth grazing the lobe. “They’ll have to go through me to get to you.”

You’re not exactly sure what response he gives to that -- somewhere between a growl and a moan against your cheek. Sonny kisses you all around, like he was starving for it, letting you wander your own hand between your bodies. You almost get to the apex of his hips, black belt tight and strained as you pull at the brass buckle, but he swats you away, mouth dragging across your neck. Stars shoot from the path his rough tongue makes, laving at bites and suckle marks.

He pins your curious hand to the couch pillow beside your head. As the sun rises gently over the horizon, Dominick lifts your shirt to your neck, happily taking in the sight of your perked breasts for the first time. They’re devoted to generously, no hesitation, making your torso heave and shiver under the bites and laved budding peaks.

Your roommate sleeps down the hall. He knows he has to keep you semi-quiet, but the hand that isn’t holding yours hostage follows a path down your tummy, hips, to the curve of your pubic mound like he’s studied a map on it. You panting wildly again, little revelating noises in his ear that goes straight to his cock. There’s not enough time to do everything he wants, not today.

Instead he’s kissing you like it’s the first time all over again, fingers making clockwise circles against the material dividing him from _you_. Unhurried, tormenting, round and round on your pussy, dampening your panties and pajama bottoms all the way through. You practically yowl when two expert fingers drag the material to the side without further ado, fingertips greeting soaked skin.

“ _Sonny --_ ” You start, eyes searching for his in the haze of daybreak. Lust makes you vibrate. He never stops that small, circular motion, focused on rotating a thumb through your wetness until it drips _down,_ swollen and teased. For someone who seems so insanely innocent and kind, you’re awestruck by his audacity for torment here, one finger threatening to split you open, but not submerging completely.

The time above the TV creeps closer and closer to the 7 am press release, but you both ignore it. Dominick sits back, your thighs and calves falling from his back to snuggle around his hips instead. You’re bashful and red when he finally sinks a long, thick finger through the wetness puddling on your innermost thighs, maintaining a soft pumping that forces your eyes to flutter. You try to stifle any noise by biting your cheek, bliss melting away any reservations about this first sexual dive together.

Then he curls his finger up once, and _twice_ , and then again and again -- you’re forced to let out subdued whimpering. The sensation travels from your groin, to your brain, to your toes. Pleasure pings at every important zone. Your sweet little cries of delight are loud enough that he’s afraid you’re going to wake your roommate, so Dominick’s free hand cups your jaw, three sizable digits at your lips to keep you quiet. He would _never_ force you to keep your mouth shut, but this was a . . . _reminder_.

“Don’t wake up your friend, sweetheart.” He warns slowly, making your guts boil over his look. He’s so incredibly handsome like this, lips raw and pink from your kisses, hair an absolute mess. You want to unbutton the long sleeve and toy with his chest hair, lick _him_ from neck to navel and travel even more south, but he’s determined to get you off like this -- another finger joining the first, rubbing consistently at a spot he’s sure will get him points for finding on the first try. You can’t recall the last time someone had fingerfucked you like this, unashamed, firmly, getting you so close to the edge, _daring_ you to spill over. 

When you’re gripping at the wrist connected to the perfect thrumming inside of you, whining more like crying behind his other hand, he takes some pity. He can feel your tight, wet, _warm_ walls fluttering away when his thumb rubs a few hurried, unshapely movements into your clit. He’s gratified as you come on his sloppy fingers, face lolling and nuzzling into the hand that falls from your jaw.

“ _Very good_ .” Sonny is all praises, kissing you again, your tongue lax and pliable for his. Euphoria and the overwhelming need to rest again fogs your vision, hands locking in his shirt. He laughs into your knuckles, kissing each one, before prying them off from his top. “You have to let me go, _baby_ \-- I gotta go back to work. Go to sleep.”

You frown into the semi-darkness, sun peaking over the horizon. The term of endearment makes your entire body soar -- so you try to combat the way gets up to leave, pecking your temple. A whirlwind of emotions drift in you, while the large, pink woven blanket on the back of the couch is tossed across your body. 

In a post-orgasmic glow in the brightness of the morning, you fall back into slumber. The Detective is long gone before you wake again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ayoo so i had wisdom tooth surgery a few days ago, got all four removed at once, and let me just say, for someone who loves to yawn and talk and .... eat, its been a rough 36 hours already??? feel like the girl in saw II stuck in the jaw trap with this ice wrap on for sure.
> 
> also ive been using ao3 since its creation and *just* found out today there's an option for dark mode lol.... 'the more you know'.jpeg am i right
> 
> till next time -- love bagels


	6. Eggs & Bacon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carisi and Benson interrogate the man in the red hat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey ya'll!! a little bit of plot ahead for this one, but it was needed for the jam packed chapter that's coming next. 
> 
> thank you for all the wonderful comments and kind wishes on my surgery! it hasn't exactly been my year medically, so it was nice to see kind words.
> 
> as always, enjoy!!!
> 
> xx bagels

* * *

**CLEARSIDE APARTMENTS  
** **9001 CLEARSIDE DRIVE APT #417  
** **MANHATTAN, NEW YORK  
** **MONDAY, NOVEMBER 28TH**

* * *

Eggs fry and crackle in a skillet. The delicious smell tickles your nose and awakens your belly before your mind. Lifting into a sitting position sluggishly, a few angry knots in your back tighten from a night on the couch, and, as your pelvic muscles twinge with a bit of soreness, _Sonny._

Flashes of your morning with the Detective come back in a rush, and your heart hammers in your chest with glee. Who would have thought such a sweet guy knew his way around the block? Out of the men who’d wooed you ( or the few you’d wooed yourself ) into bed, their focus normalized on _themselves_ the first few times around. 

But Dominick had happily sought your pleasure, no nerves, no hesitation. Then again, there had always been something unbearably sexy and daring you saw in Sonny; like he knew more secrets than he could ever tell, an edge from a lifestyle of danger and hasty moments. Like there was never enough time to give. 

You look at the TV — still set on the morning news, volume on but low, forecasting another vicious week for weather. It’s a few minutes after noon, far past when you wanted to sleep in, but with the events that took place yesterday, you give yourself a little bit of a break. 

Vivian is in her element when you shuffle to the kitchen, seasoning a pair of omelets. She takes out a pair of headphones, switching hands to whisk pancake batter. 

“Mornin’ — sorry if I woke you, girl; but I thought you might be hungry.”

You nod gratefully, thanking her, picking away flecks of sleep from your eyes. You know Vivian well enough at this point that you know the way she holds her tongue must be killing her, wanting to indulge in every part of your story. But _coffee first_ , you think. You slide your favorite mug from the cabinet, and start the brew. 

“What happened to your hand?” She breaks, flipping the eggs over without even having to look, far more interested in the gauze. You fill the cup with a little bit of creamer.

“I fell outside of the restaurant. Someone left boxes by the gate, and I was trying to run . . .” You dive right in. There was no point beating around the bush. “You remember the picture that Sonny and the other Detective showed us, that first day? Of some guy?”

“Yeah, but it was a shitty picture.”

“It was. But . . . he’s important to their investigation, and when I was unloading the trash last night, he was back at _Gianni’s_. I took a picture, which he saw me do. He yelled. I ran before he could cross the street, and then I ate dirt.”

“That’s why you were at the precinct.” She says it more to herself than you, the answer she’d been reaching for the entire night. “What about your phone?”

“It’s in the hands of the NYPD now.” You shrug, taking a seat at the small wooden table. It creaks beneath you, old wood passed down from your stepdad’s side. It’s been decorated neatly, already adorned with a mock, miniature snowman and cinnamon scented pine cones. You loved the way the smell reminds you of the mountains. “It wouldn’t work anyways; I shattered it in the fall.”

“Well, at least you have this . . .” Vivian says like an afterthought, abandoning the food to retrieve something from the front door side table. Your heart fills with comfort when she comes back with your wallet, a little stained with grime and slush, but nonetheless intact. There’s a little plastic tag on the zipper, an evidence ticket. Dominick must have left it before leaving.

You unzip it and find everything where it should be — ID, voter registration, cash, gift receipts. Even Sonny’s business card remains, minimal to no damage to your possessions. 

“Sucks that I’m gonna have to get a new phone today though. I lost all of my numbers, pictures . . .” You lament, putting the wallet aside when your roommate places two steaming plates on the table. She sits beside you, fishing her own from the pockets of her sweatpants, and offers it to you. 

“Have you called your parents?”

“No.” But you gingerly take it anyways. “I didn’t want to worry them. I don’t want to say it, but this is exactly what my stepdad was worried about.”

Vivian raises one bushy brow, speaking through a large bite of buttered toast.

“What, living in the city?”

“No, dating a cop.” You can’t help but chuckle. 

“I’d think you’d be more safe this way.” She contemplates as you start eating. Your stomach gargles, thankful for the sustenance after such an engaging, draining 24 hours. You try not to eat too quickly, but your roommate was an incredible cook. “I mean, it’s horrible luck you were there, but you had someone to go to who for help, right?”

“Right.” You agree, pointing the fork in her direction. “Though he wasn’t happy that I’d involved myself either.”

Vivian scoffs, eyes rolling as she eats. 

“Men.”

You can’t stifle your laughter as the pair of you babble on over your meals. 

Having Vivian in your life was a blessing — after posting an ad for a roommate when Matt and Javiar first decided to get a place of their own, she had been the very first applicant. At your interview over coffee, you had found she’d never lived alone before. When her mother redeployed, the adventurous girl followed her own desires to work in architecture, looking to move to the city. It was a perfect match, at the perfect time. She’d moved in within a week.

You’re just about done with your breakfast when the tv seizes your attention. The volume was hushed and low, but you could make out the words —

“. . . _catching up with us, today, we’re following a developing story as new details surface in the light of an opening statement released this morning by the New York City police department’s Chief William Dodds . . ._ ”

Vivian nearly jumps out of her skin as you bound from the table to the living room, searching for the remote. Finding it tangled in the pink blanket you’d cocooned in overnight, trembling fingertips turn it up. You’re surprised to see the picture _you_ took flash across the screen, before live footage takes over, of unfamiliar officers packing a _familiar_ man into a squad car. 

“Wait — did they catch him?” Vivian is behind you, eyes glued to the screen. She hands off your coffee, and you both take a seat in front of the monitor, breakfast abandoned.

“I . . . I think they _did_.”

* * *

 **PRECINCT 16  
** **OFFICES OF THE SPECIAL VICTIMS UNIT  
** **MANHATTAN, NEW YORK  
** **MONDAY, NOVEMBER 28TH**

* * *

Olivia _twacks!_ the folder down, papers and still frame pictures loosely falling out across the table. The man who sits handcuffed and frothing from anger flinches at the noise; it bounds off the interrogation room walls, through the bars of the window and off the two-way glass.

 _Good_ , she thinks. _Feel fear_.

“Mr. Moore, you’re a hard man to try and find.”

“Yeah, and why’s that? I ain’t been hiding from no one.” He spits out, missing a few important teeth as he grins. Detective Benson can smell his breath from here, still wet with liquor and a lack of common hygiene. She’s standing two feet away and gets a whiff — she wonders what Carisi must endure, sitting up close and across from their perp with a scowl on his face. 

Coming to perch on the edge of the steel table, the Sergeant crosses her arms over her chest. 

“Okay, you’re an open book, then.” She reasons, peering over her glasses. “What were you doing at _Gianni’s_ last night?” 

“I didn’t realize it was a crime to get a beer.” Mr. Moore frowns. Olivia hates his attitude already. Only years of experience could give her the patience to play cat and mouse like this, finessing and dissecting the truth from rotten offenders time after time. It didn’t mean the work getting there got any easier, or any less repetitive.

“It’s not a _crime_ to get a beer; it’s a crime to rape and torture women.” Dominick doesn’t miss a beat. Benson teeters on concerned with her own choice to have him here; she can tell he’s fueled by passion in this case, with the details of brutality involved, and, with his kind and helpful girlfriend falling into the mess. 

If the pair of them were going to approach this as the good cop bad cop, she knew with certainty which role he’d take. And just for a moment, she thinks of Elliot. Some things never change. 

“What?” The man’s nose scrunches up. “I was at that stupid bar until they closed it down, and then I went home, in Brooklyn. Then you dumbasses pick me up at my job _—_ thanks for that, by the way, I’m sure I’m unemployed _again!_ But I didn’t _rape_ no one —”

“Mr. Moore, we’re not talking about last night. Can you tell me where you were or what you were doing on October 30th? It was a Wednesday. Or perhaps October 7th? Steptember 15th?” Olivia speaks over him now, unwavering. 

“Hell, lady, I can’t even remember where I was two days ago.” The man laughs, all saliva and a throaty cough from huffing cigars. It makes Dominick grind his teeth, unamused by the blasé front. “But I sure wasn’t wherever you think I was.”

“You’d better start _thinking_ a lot harder,” Detective Carisi presses, “or the only bars you’re gonna see from now on are cell bars at Rikers or Elmira — wherever they got the room this holiday season. And I hear prison wine ain’t as tasty.”

“Alright, alright.” The man squeezes his eyes shut, spending an awfully long while silent in front of the two antsy Detectives. When he opens them, Dominick notes immediately that he looks a bit queasy. “Wednesday, huh? Well, shit, I was at _Gianni’s_.”

Olivia moves around the table now, circling prey. Their first admission. It was clockwork. She takes her seat beside Carisi, scooting the chair up a little so the three of them could each be heard nice and proper for those waiting on the other side of the interrogation glass. 

“And what did you do while you were there?”

“What do you do at bars?” Mr. Moore barks, putting his handcuffed hands onto the table. They run against the steel in an ear splitting way. “I drank until it closed down. I’m a drunk. My life has been shit. What else do you want me to say?”

“Did you talk to anyone while you were there? _Anyone_ who can verify that you stayed there, all night?” Sonny inquires, peering in the folder just to double check his initial statement on the recordings found from all local restaurants, by order of Sergeant Benson, were still conclusive. “Because we have you on videotape wanderin’ off, in the direction of where we found our victim, and we don’t see you return.”

“I probably went to take a piss; bathroom is always full,” the guy is starting to sweat, the pressure of their evidence piling up, “listen, I know I’m not a stand up guy, but I didn’t do whatever your tryin’a pin on me.”

“If you want us to believe you, you need to answer our questions.” Olivia barters. “ _Did_ you talk to anyone?”

“I’m sure I did, being there for hours . . . yeah. I remember it now. Old hockey game was on, the Cup from 09’. Got talkin’ with the bartender — new fella, quiet but a good mixer. Some dame at the bar, blonde. Gorgeous rack. Said she was a pianist —”

Olivia and Dominick sit back as a pair, looking at each other in disbelief. She cuts him off when he tries to ramble on, sputtering. 

“I’m sorry, I’m going to have to stop you, is this,” she flickers through the still frame images of their poor girls, finding one of Hannah Gomez that wasn’t as horrific as the next. She slides it across the tabletop, “the girl?”

“Jesus fucking Christ, that’s _disgusting_ — I’m going to be _sick_ —”

“Answer the question, _now_.” Detective Carisi orders lowly, putting both of his hands on the table and rising. Mr. Moore gags once, but nods vigorously, skin as white as snow. He shoves the picture of the body back like it had physically burned him.

“Yes, that’s her. _Yuck_. She left before I did — I tried to buy her a drink, she got a phone call, went out the back.”

“We didn’t find a phone.” Olivia looks to the two way glass, knowing one of her squad mates would look into anything on the location of that phone without her having to even ask. 

“And I wouldn’t know where it is.” He hisses. 

The two Detectives remain silent for a moment. Their suspect’s demeanor had changed upon seeing the pictures, sickly and horrified. Olivia knows it doesn’t prove his innocence in the slightest; having seen horrible men act their way out of conviction before, inducing nausea or falling wet with tears. 

Dominick sits back down gingerly, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Look, I donno what else you two fools want me to say, ‘cept that you got the wrong guy. I swear that I didn’t see her again, I’ll do a DNA test, lie detector, anything —”

“Yeah, unfortunately DNA is a bit of a problem in our case — see, whoever did this is smart and left very little for us.” Carisi’s eyes shoot to the side at Olivia, before falling back on the man before them seems on the verge of tears. “And what is it you do for living again, Mr. Moore?”

“I . . . I’m a home cleaner for _Hogan’s_.” He stutters. “I c-can see where you would think —”

“What?” Olivia muses. “That we’d think you’re probably incredibly good at cleaning up big messes? Abandoned homes, supplies —”

“ — that’s enough!” 

The door bursts open with the exclaim, revealing a round, bald man that neither Detective had the pleasure of knowing before, and a pissed off looking Barba, who’d been on the other side of the two way glass the entire time. Their suspect seems to deflate with relief, souring Sergeant Benson’s mood even further.

“I think you’ve had enough time badgering my client.” The man says, clapping his hands down on Mr. Moore’s shoulders. The ADA scuffles to Benson’s side. “Unless you’re making some sort of arrest, I’m taking him.”

“Don't worry, you’ll be seeing the NYPD again in court.” Rafael starts, like a bull fresh from the cage, sliding the folder on the desk across to the two unsuspecting strangers. Your picture is the one he pulls out, pointing at the man in question. “We already have your client's DNA, from a cigar he left at the scene. If _any_ of it matches what we have on our victims, we’re going to _start_ at Murder 1.”

“On what grounds?” The lawyer laughs. “Your detective just said there was hardly any evidence —”

“There’s more than enough evidence to try him.” Barba counters, as the pair stand to leave. “And after we get the results back, you client better be in the U.S., and fit to stand trial. New York City wants justice.”

“Yeah? Well then, I guess we’ll meet again in chambers. We can talk about justice then.” The lawyer says on the way out the door, harshly, before slamming it behind him. 

“Too bad he lawyered up.” Dominick sighs, feeling like they’d been on the cusp of something prudent to the case. “Though . . . I’m not sure, Sarg, he seemed pretty shaken seeing Hannah Gomez’s corpse.”

“Where are we on testing the cigar?” Benson rubs her temple.

“Well, there were three in the ashtray.” Barbs muses. “If he’s our guy, one hopefully matches something on these women. A fiber. A hair we missed. Something. If not, the best I can do is fall back on the tapes.”

“Carisi,” the Staff Sergeant stands, “take Tutuola; have the M.E.‘s office run all DNA samples from our three women _again,_ then see if it links to Moore. If it does, we make our arrest.”

* * *

 **CENTRAL PARK  
** **MANHATTAN, NEW YORK  
** **TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 29TH**

* * *

Dominick almost misses the call.

Your coffee date was scooted back on both your schedules to the next day — but you’re just happy to spend the time with him now. You’re posing for a picture in Central Park, with a hot cup in your hands and a beautiful smile. He wanted one for safekeeping, finding you breathtaking with the setting sun. Shortly after you snap one or two of him too, for a picture ID for your new phone. 

You’re both lounging on a park bench, talking about the upcoming holidays. Nightlife moves slowly around you, couples grazing the sidewalks, night time joggers beating personal bests. The skies call for snow, but you ignore it, lost in each other. 

After returning from their cruise, your parents had called with joyous stories of their getaway. You’d made the choice to withhold the information about the investigation, or your run in with the main suspect in it, in an attempt to sully any of their worries about you not returning home for Christmas. 

Instead you tell them about your Thanksgiving with Vivian, Matt and Javiar, and a little bit about Dominick. Just enough to please your mother and not give your stepdad a heart attack. 

Dominick talks about his sisters, and the way a group chat between the family wouldn’t stop distracting him all day. The holidays weren’t easy for the Special Victims Unit — like a curse, they usually were rampant with chaos and cases. He doubted he’d make it home either. 

You’re walking back to the squad car as stars twinkle in the skies, his big arm crushing you to his side, when you feel the vibration against your ribs.

Fingering it out of his pocket, you twiddle his phone your hands. 

“Ring, ring!” You say cheekily, but the way his expression darkens at the caller ID, you know it can’t be good news.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next time we're going to court <3 and some other new places too . . . ;) i'm already about halfway through the next one, so keep your sights for it sooner than later!!!
> 
> i'm hesitant to post my twitter here but if ya'll wanna talk off of ao3 lemme know & i'll slide u the @


	7. Tea & Honey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You and Carisi stay warm together.
> 
> or, you talk one on one with Barba.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh shit back again.................. sorry for the late posting; i needed another surgery oh hell yeah. everything's fine now, and we're really getting into the meat and potatoes of this story my friends, so hold onto your butts from here on out.
> 
> also i order an svu jacket when i finished the last chapter and it finally arrived in time for me to snuggle into it and post this one. its like poetic justice.
> 
> there is SMUT in here, so feast on the goods until next time my babies
> 
> \-- bagels xx

* * *

**CLEARSIDE APARTMENTS  
** **9001 CLEARSIDE DRIVE APT #417  
** **MANHATTAN, NEW YORK  
** **FRIDAY, DECEMBER 2ND**

* * *

You don’t hear from Dominick much for a few days. 

Life goes on, of course. You’re sure he’s wound up and in the boxing ring — fighting for these women, hunting for their peace. The way he had kissed you goodbye on your last date felt like he didn’t want to let go, _knowing_ it would be some time before he would get to do it again. You had carried the weight of his heavy farewell into the week. 

You’re working the brutal shifts anyways, gearing up to pay your bills on the 1st. The coffee is as hot as the heaters, treating families and tourists in for the rapidly approaching holidays. Bright and sunny days turn into frosty, lonely winter nights, temperature still on an unstoppable decline. Everywhere you look, the red and green theme has taken over. 

You send him a text on Friday on the subway home. 
    
    
    Sonny 10:49PM  
    
    _hope everything is ok :) miss you_

The train moves along briskly as you thumb back and forth between apps. You and a few others sit several feet apart, minding your own business in silence. Facebook was a long list of pregnancy and engagement announcements, and Twitter was a mess like usual, providing enough entertainment to last you most of the way home. 

You’re entering your apartment, keys jingling, when he responds. 
    
    
    Sonny 10:55PM  
    
    _Miss you too. Case is hot. Cant say much_

You can’t help but frown, a mix of emotions. Thus is a life with a cop — watching your mom do it, you muse that the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. Still, you had just gotten used to Sonny’s presence lighting up your life every day, making you feel fuzzy inside and adored. 

The phone buzzes again.
    
    
    Sonny 10:55PM  
    
    _How was your week?_

Shutting the door behind you, fingers pick at your gloves, freeing frigid fingertips. Vivian isn’t home — already sending you pictures with Matt and Javiar at _Gianni’s_. She had been scheduled to only work the morning shift today, and you felt good knowing your other two friends would accompany her for the rest of the night.

With the week draining your energy, you opt out of the bar despite their invitation. Something didn’t feel right about going to _Gianni’s_ anyways — not when you know the weight of the investigation surrounding it. 
    
    
    Sonny 10:56PM  
    
    _too long_

You pause, considering, before sending another. 
    
    
    Sonny 10:56PM  
    
    _home for the night. wanna come over?_

It’s a risky text. You’d have to hop in the shower and clean up, and the way your stomach rumbles, food was next on the agenda. But you’d do it all quickly if he was available. The week had been incredibly stressful, and with any luck, you’d get to spend the rest of the night with your detective. 

Shuffling through your home, you turn on the and snatch a few delivery pamphlets from the kitchen counter, torn between Thai or Chinese. You're slumped on the couch with a sweet and sour chicken special calling your name when the phone in your pocket starts to _bzz bzz_. 

You glance at the caller ID, heart pounding from zero to 100 in your ribs.

“Dominick Carisi. To what do I owe the pleasure?” You say with a smile, rolling over on the sofa like a teenager. You feel giddy when he chuckles lowly over the receiver, the sound of a pen clicking. 

“ _Hey_ — nice to hear your voice.” He admits, a little quiet. You wonder if he’s alone. “I’ve got half a review left to go here, but after that I’m done for the evening. Might be a late night if I come by.”

“That’s okay,” you say, as a creature of late nights and early morning rises, “Viv isn’t home, and I’ve gotta take a shower still. I was thinking about ordering Chinese if you’re hungry.”

“Ya know my stomach never says no.” His chair squeaks, wheels rolling around. “But you don’t have to bribe me with food with sucha pretty face.”

“Well it’s always good to have a Plan B.” Realizing you probably shouldn’t be getting too lazy here, feet touch the ground and you stand to stretch, phone tucked between your ear and shoulder. Butterflies erupt in your tummy with excitement. “I’ll make a call for delivery. What would you like?”

Sonny gives you his order, scribbled down on a pad of paper on the coffee table at the foot of the couch. You clean the ashtray with one of Vivian’s old joints when he argues something about burden of proof to someone you can’t see, mildly protecting your friend’s habit in front of an actual cop. 

He’s whisked back into a heated debate and has to go, so you dial for Chinese from the closest restaurant still open right after. You estimate prep and delivery would take at least half an hour, so you get the shower running and tidy up a few messes left behind by you and your roommate. 

It only takes a few minutes, giving you lots of time to strip and submerge into the bathroom. Steam clogs the environment, warm and inviting. You lather, rinse, repeat and shave with precision, and steal a little of Vivian’s sweet scented lotion for an added effect. 

You’re mildly checking yourself out in the mirror when the food arrives, torn on a pair of your best underwear. You opt for the darker ones, and scuffle down the hall, dressing in a comfy set of pajamas to save you from the arid chill as you go. The delivery is in the arms of a sweet looking young man, shivering in the cold. You pay him extra for the trouble. 

Shutting the door behind you and locking the bolt, you carry the food to the counter and set it aside. You’re starving, but something in your gut tells you Dominick won’t leave you waiting for too much longer. 

By the end of the hour, you send a gentle warning text to Vivian about your guest for the evening. She makes it a point to call you, sounding somewhat drunk in her shouts of supporting your sex life. Concerned laughter puffs from your chest as Matt and Javiar steal the receiver, assuring you that they’re taking her back to their apartment to take care of her when they’re done, and wish you a good night. 

_Friends_ starts a second episode but you disconnect from your attention to the tv when there’s another knock at the door. 

Taking your hair down from the damp knot, you try to steady anxious hands before unlocking the bolts and swinging open the door. Dominick blows heat into closed fists, but stops to grin as you step back to let him in. Flurries trail in with him. 

Sonny thinks he likes you best like this. He’d met you in that pink service uniform, seen you all dolled up and in something pretty for your adventures around the city, but in this faded looking t-shirt and a pair of grey sweat pants, wet lashes and hair — a piece of him falls in love. 

You can’t really help yourself either, drinking in after not having him around for a few days. You note he looks really tired, hair not as tamed and slick, black button up a bit wrinkled beneath the heavy suede coat hung around broad shoulders. 

Regardless your mouth waters, catching his cologne in the small door frame. 

“Welcome —” you start, turning to lead him through the apartment. It had been incredibly dark when the last time he walked this hallway, so this time, his eyes roam around to the various pictures, trinkets and furniture making up your space. Your pace slows to let him browse, warm at his interest, “— how was your day?”

“It was . . .” He holds his tongue. Olivia had made it clear you weren’t privy to any more knowledge surrounding this case until your day in court. A day in which he had yet to tell you much about, due to the decision being just about out of his control until the DA’s office could follow proper protocol in contacting you. “. . . _eventful_.”

“I’m sure, with everything going on.” Curiosity would eat you, but his pause had emphasized the elephant in the room without having to say it. You guess you weren’t meant to know yet.

“These your parents?” He changes the subject as his attention falls to a silver picture frame, with a bright eyed couple and a smaller teenaged version of you posing in a tropical looking environment. You nod and stand beside him, sneakily letting one hand graze his lower back. You pretend not to notice him stiffen. 

“Yes, it was my mother’s 40th birthday; we went to Florida.” You put a finger on your chin, thinking of the not so fun ending to the week in the keys. “I remember right after this I got _so_ sick; I snuck tequila when no one was looking with my cousin. I think I was 16, 17 maybe.”

He gives you an inquisitive look, peering down at you in a way that makes your pulse hammer away. You’d gotten so close you could see his pretty blue eyes darken, tongue wetting at his bottom lip. The tension in the air clouds anything outside of the way your eyes connect. Your knees feel like putty. 

“Correct me if I’m wrong darlin’, but the legal drinking age in Florida is _still_ 21.” He’s teasing you, one hand brushing away the soft hairs shaping your face. It’s been days since he’s put his lips on yours, and he didn’t think it was fair to hold out any longer.

“And what are you gonna do about it, officer?” The words barely make it past your grin before he makes a small, mocking noise, leaning in to kiss away any more sarcasm you might try to toss his way. His hand roaming your jaw finds a home in the bunches of your hair. 

Dominick steals the oxygen from your chest, tongue pressing the barrier of your teeth to fight with yours, winning the battle with finesse. He’d been so wrapped up in the case and a few difficult reports at Fordham, he didn’t notice how much he’d missed you until now — all of it: the sound of your voice, your gentle demeanor with a tempting gaze, the softness of your skin. 

You pull back for air after losing yourself in the sultry way he holds you — a struggle in itself. But you don’t get to catch it, gasping out when mighty hands push on your hips, backing you into the kitchen. You barely have time to find your footing when your buttcheeks hit the dining table, lifted and sandwiched between wood and your six foot brick of a boyfriend. He stuffs two thighs between yours.

The surprise at his recklessness must read on your face, because he smiles and pinches your chin between his fingers, making you hold his stare. 

“I don’t normally arrest such pretty women.” He hovers just out of reach, keeping your head still when you try to scooch higher up on the mahogany to kiss him again. He’s trying to soak in every detail of how you look right now, bright and enticing, but you’re already feeling blown out.

“I bet you say that to all the ladies, detective.” You grumble when he dodges your advance again, lightly gripping the back of your neck. “Though I don’t think I would be very complacent.”

He laughs freely now, fingers traveling further down your neck and collarbones, through the wet ends of your hair. He can smell your shampoo, clean and softly scented. 

“You gotta smart mouth, don’t you?” He states the obvious, fingers still searching, exploring. Your breathlessness gives away arousal more than anything as his knuckles trace between your breasts, down to the base of your shirt halfway stuck between your fluffy sweatpants and his hips. Your eyes dip from his eyes to where his hand hovers, daring him to touch you again. 

He takes your top off smoothly, tossing it careless behind you on the table top. You’re flushed all over, feeling all sappy like honey with his grin. The visual of so much exposed skin and a flattering bra triggers his kisses, from your jaw and earlobe, down your neckbone and onto your sternum. He’s invading your senses one by one — touch on a mission, expensive aftershave making your brain foggy, a tad overwhelmed.

It feels amazing, tongue laving at the divots and tasting sweet skin. Your panties dampen, skin breaking out into goosebumps. He descends and you bend backward, forearms the only support as he hunts to your belly button. You can see the top of his head, and his hands working at the black tie knot around his neck. 

When it finally comes free, he tosses it to the side, shedding his jacket too, letting it fall to the floor. You’re stuck between muscle and the table, pelvic bone pinned up against his. It takes everything in you not to move, but he’s working on his cufflinks and the buttons on his wrists for so long you cant your hips up just a little against his. 

“ _Mmm_. . .” It must feel as good for him as it does for you, the dark noise humming in his chest prompting you to do it again. His erection is evident, grazing the underside of your thigh at this heated angle. His hands fall from his wrists to the soft flesh of your inner thighs, gripping tight through the material. Dominick peels your legs open just a little more. “You’re killin’ me here.”

You sit back up on the creaking table, going for the buttons of his shirt. His squeeze on your legs never slackens and lasts just as long as it takes to get to the last round clasp. You free him to the dark undershirt, sliding the durable material to the floor with his jacket. 

At this rate, you’re pretty sure the two of you aren’t going much further than the table. Not that you would mind, a soft glow from the kitchen providing just the right amount of light that you’re enthralled with what you can and can’t see. The tv is like white noise, bubbling here and there with canned laughter in the room somewhere left. 

Both hands crowd your face when he finally gives in and kisses you fully, letting one fall around moments later and expertly unclasp your bra when you’re not focused. Without it you feel exposed, but he doesn’t give you much time to worry about it, fingers revelling in the peaked flesh as soon as the material joins the pile on the floor. 

The proprietorial and smart exploration makes you whimper against his lips, startled and squirming under icy fingers and tepid palms. You wobble a bit ungracefully and fall back onto the table, elbows first — arms officially out for the count. 

Sonny’s expression is cheeky when you wait for his next move. His head dips to follow his hands, focused on each nipple equally. The cold air settling over the city in contrast to his steamy mouth is enough to leave your own ajar, sudden little spurts of noise escaping without consent. He’s barely touched you yet and you’re slipping peacefully into thoughts of what’s to come. 

You’re trying to balance between loving the sensation and overstimulation from his teeth when he regretfully lets go and steps back, rolling your sweatpants down your legs and taking them with him. Dominick kicks the mess of clothing the two of you created out of the way. 

In just your panties, you curl your toes where they barely graze the floor. He was still severely overdressed, looking like an angel and the devil at the same time, so you make the choice to touch the floor and fall to your knees. Surprise lingers from the detective, lighting a different fire in you.

Just like he had earlier, you trail your hands up the brawny lines of his thighs, tugging the belt buckle free. The leather is discarded somewhere behind you. 

He’s very still as you unbutton his dress pants, easing the zipper down to the end. Fisting the material, you drag them down his thighs to his ankles, then make your way back up to his hips. He’s hard in his boxer briefs, trying not to follow your hand too greedily as you palm him through the thin cotton. 

Dominick’s lips part open when you finally free him, smooth palm feather light around his cock. If he thought he was prepared for the curious look you spy him with before pumping him a few times, he _wasn’t._ Something Italian passes falls from his tongue, but he’s not even sure what he says. You flush at the harshness of the dialect.

You recall how he’d made you come on the couch, teasing and domineering. Dominick had sought your pleasure simply because he wanted to. You’re willing to bet his week was far more stressful than yours, and now you plan to return the favor. 

Your thumb rubs an unplanned pattern down a pulsing vein. He sees sparks at the pleasure, collecting the majority of your hair in one big palm. Vivian had caught you daydreaming the last few days at work and around the apartment, mind wandering to what it would be like to be exactly where you were now. It feels better than you thought it would. 

It was now or, well, not _never_ , but you had waited long enough. On your knees, you follow your fingers, licking a gentle stripe from base to top. Ears ringing with glee at the way his grip tightens in your hair, you do it again, before sinking your mouth down the girth of his dick without hesitation. Your favorite detective hisses, falling more into the addiction that is you with every pass of your lips. 

“Ah, that’s -- _fuck_ ,” you’re a little surprised by his swearing, tongue stroking earnestly with every hollow of your cheeks. You had some experience here, hoping you were doing a good enough job to drive him crazy. You like his flavor, the heaviness of his cock, holding your mouth down and open. He moans and you’re forced to press your legs together for relief. 

When your jaw starts to ache, you gasp for air and look up to find his gaze like a challenge, his fingers still at your scalp. You're glad you can find his eyes, prideful the aroused distress lingering in his pupils, the furrow of his brow. You take it as a good sign. 

Going back down on him, you try not to gag when his hips can no longer remain put. 

He’s pretty sure he’s seeing red around the edges, free hand stabilizing on the table. He wants to use the other to guide your head, to help you along in the teasing process you bestow, but he doesn’t dare stop how heavenly your mouth feels with your own agenda in mind. It twists a knot loose in his belly, and you go on for what feels like forever, breathing as even as you can. 

“Doll . . . it’s -- _so good_ ,” he says severely, like a warning, leaning back on his heels before giving into the soft cavern of your mouth, “— not gonna l-last if you keep that up —”

You hum, and his chest stutters, but it’s over as soon you’d started just to say:

“. . . then don’t.” You feel no shyness now, getting used to the firecracker feeling the two of you set off together. 

As tempting as your offer is, he’s had enough. There would be another time and place for this, and he’d fantasize about it for a _least_ a week, but the next time you pull back to cling to breath, he leans down to grab you underneath the arms and helps lift you back to unstable feet. Sonny kisses you without restraint, biting numbing lips, making you moan against his teeth.

His hands grab both your elbows and spin you to face the table in the next blink, pressing you against his chest. You can still feel his erection on your low spine, but it feels more like an added bonus as his arms wrap around your stomach and hips, one hand diving through the line of your panties. You seek his fingertips — the soft way they start at your clit, rubbing back and forth against the sensitive little bump. 

His other hand rests on your tummy possessively, applying pressure to the muscle and skin there. You dampen further and mewl as Dominick’s fingers slide through wet heat with no warning, making your hips stutter back into his. It’s evident how much you enjoyed going down on him. You can’t see his face like this, but his groan hot and bothered in your ear sends tingles to every nerve. 

“How did I get so lucky?” He muses blindly, one finger finally searching and slipping into your pussy. You nearly shake in the cage his arms make, knees buckling together and trapping his wrist. It doesn’t stop him, finger pumping carefully through your folds, driving you insane. You say his name like your praying, letting him rub at the sensitive, secret spot inside you that brings you closer to orgasm. “So pretty, lettin’ me touch you like this.”

“ _Please_ —” you cry out when he moves his hand on your stomach to pull your hips apart, adding a second finger to join the first. You stutter more but your train of thought escapes as Dominick’s fingers curls to the knuckle, stroking your front walls expertly. 

You’re less concerned with the little spots you’ll have on your neck from his teeth over the way it triggers you to writhe between him and the table. It’s so much at once, and you’re approaching a peak, especially when he removes his fingers to rub back and forth at your clit again. 

“Dom— _inick_ , I — _oh_. . . ” your head hits the wood, unable to stay upright anymore. But he still doesn’t stop, even in this weird embrace, fingers rubbing and pinching and switching until you can’t control the way you vibrate beneath him. He’s clearly figured out the trick for using your hands on a woman, and it’s making you desperate for release. 

You’re twitching in his arms. He’s teetering on the idea of slowing and using his tongue instead, but you come wordlessly bent over, leaving you both shocked by it’s sudden approach. Your body hums in delight for a full minute, feeling shaky in the aftermath. But he doesn’t leave you. You clench around his fingers and pant staccato when he teasingly flutters them inside, feeling him slide your panties down to your ankles with the other in the blissful moment. 

You tremble as Sonny leans over you, nose nuzzling your collarbone. The material of the clothing he still wears in contrast to your nakedness startles you, static on your skin. 

“Such a good little thing for me, aren’t ya? Full of _surprises_.” He notes breathlessly, nibbling at your earlobe. The dirty talk is enough to make you starving for more, turning your head to try and steal a kiss from his mouth. He lets you turn around to get a better hold of him.

You can’t recall the last time it had felt this good. The last few men you’d screwed around with had been fumbling hands in the dark deep into the night, and your boyfriends before that didn’t light a candle in comparison to the waves of pleasure still rolling in from coming. Dominick was sweet and kind and spent his days saving lives, but with the way he’s staring you down now, he’s not even completely naked and you’re about to beg for it. 

Striding the edge of the table, you drag him back to the apex of your legs by the falling belt loops, fingers dancing back to his groin. 

“Here, or my room?” You offer him the option, unwilling to let this end. His mind short wires when your sweaty palms tease around the V of his pelvis, never touching exactly where he wants you to. The idea of sex on the table was intriguing, but at the risk of your comfort, he leaves little kisses on your lips and says:

“Lead the way.”

Sonny doesn’t need much coaching to follow as you push him between the pecs and pad across the floorboards, mission set. You murmur something through the lust about the pill and safety, and he nods because he trusts you, pleasing you further. 

The journey to your room almost stops when he can’t seem to let you go, hands on your biceps, mouth returning to the spot on your neck he’s remembered you like best from behind. You see lightning in the dark, knees nearly give out at the door frame. 

Fingertips blindly reach for the light switch but miss several times, keeping the pair of you stuck there.

“Forgetta ‘bout it.” He chuckles at your perturbation, big hand grabbing yours where it’s extended, finding his way easy enough. You finally find the mattress and feel your world tilt sideways as he gets you on your back, melting into the sheets when attentive fingertips trail up your ankles, knees and hips. You watch him peel the undershirt off and toss it, boxers next, and then the bed dips and you’re completely trapped, arms dragging your hips to his. 

Sonny kisses you like he plans to take all the words you wanna say away, strict tongue and dirty phrases when you try to coax him into moving faster. You feel like you nearly die at how satisfying it is when he finally slips inside, just the right way. You chuckle when you both moan, earning you a sizzling look in the dark. 

The gears in his head seem to stop working when you preen at a well timed first thrust, as you shudder, knees falling wider and still somehow tightening around his back too. He’s 100% positive he’s never going to get enough of this now — eyes trailing from your wide doe-like eyes, the swollen pout of your lips, the way your chest shakes with every whine. 

He stills when his hips happily snuggle against yours, sweating like an animal from the way you wiggle and squirm beneath him, feeling so full. Dominick doesn’t say anything as you lock eyes again, like he’s waiting for something. 

“Please —” you’re not usually one to grovel so much, but if he doesn’t start sparking friction, you're going to pass out. His concentration visibly returns and the first real dig of his hips makes little white stars fog the corners of your vision. Your fingers find his hair, messing up the strict locks as you roll your nails softly over his scalp, and he makes a sound like a snarl.

The feeling is divine, and Dominick grunts sexy little praises in your ear as he hunts the feeling again. You're hazed in the way he kisses you, in the way every pointed nudge of him inside you makes you feral. His triceps trap your knees with no remorse, making it easier to make his point, and your vision blurs with mad euphoria. 

Half of his name stutters out when it goes from really good to _really_ good, the other half teetering out into a ragged cry as everything from your stomach down thrums with increasing pleasure. It rolls in like the tide, familiar but terrifying. Weak fingertips cling to the back of his neck, grasping the fine hairs when he nearly collapses on top of you —crushing you with his weight.

“. . . so perfect like this.” He cooes, baritone heavy and teasing, even here. He’s got you spread and velvety and still finds a way to make your ears pop, rough thumb rolling greedily over your clit with the determination to coax you into coming again. “So . . . _ah_ , ha — _hell, baby_ —”

He can’t continue speaking, stimulation from his petting making you hotter, wetter for him. Your body betrays you completely, twitching in the bliss. 

You’re both tangled up in one another for five minute or five hours -- you’re unsure as the kisses grow more bereft of intention. Somewhere along the way you come for a second time tonight, turning you frazzled and buzzing. Dominick trembles, a lot less refined in the wake of the slick squeeze of your pussy than you were used to. 

You can’t help but feel prideful at his expense. He’s so sexy, beads of sweat matching yours, hypnotized with the _tighter_ way you snuggle him to you in the glow of orgasm. You tell him that, index fingernail following a line from his neck to his navel. 

It doesn’t take much else -- Sonny’s got top tier stamina for a few different reasons, but you shatter all of them with a few of your own seedy murmurs in along his earlobe. For such a loud mouth, he’s rendered to untamable grunts and something like purring as he comes inside you, jaw falling to mar at your collar.

You’re teetering on obsessed with the way his hands snake around your torso, rolling you both over without pause so you sprawl across his large, heaving body. There’s a lot of your hair brushed out all over his neck and face, so he pets it to the side and ventures the knots and bones of your spine. 

You simper and giggle when the caress passes a ticklish spot along your ribs.

Dominick would be content staying like this for the rest of the night, or, now morning, as the clock on your nightstand reveals daybreak. You look content but sleepy, drifting in and out of a nap. He’s playing with the locks of your hair, about to let you pass out, but your stomach rumbles on his.

Despite his own hunger being satiated in a _different_ way, he knows he needs to feed you.

“Hey,” his palms come to stop, jarring you back to the land of the living, “are you hungry? We forgot to eat.”

“. . . yeah. . . but I’m so comfy. _Shh_.”

His eyes roll in the dark. 

It takes some prodding for you to get up, but when your stomach betrays you again, you don’t have a choice of staying still. Dominick sits up on the mattress, taking you with him. Astride his lap you’re blushing again, but he swats playfully at your right buttcheek.

“Let’s go.”

The pair of you head for the kitchen. It had been a spectacle to find clothing in the dim light, neutral lumps of material tossed around the apartment. You eventually settle into his undershirt and your sweat pants on the couch as he’s buttoning the latch on his cufflinks, pants neatly buckled back on. 

Snatching the delivery from the counter, you and Sonny hit the couch a little exhausted but awake enough to dive into the lukewarm Chinese. Tossing your legs across his, you feel delighted when he happily rubs at your knees and calves. 

It’s now when you notice how comfortable you feel having him around. You eye him discreetly as you both munch on your late dinner over something unmemorable on the television, providing background noise for your chattering back and forth.

At every turn, he’s made you feel safe and wanted, even when he and Detective Tutuola were just passing strangers at the diner. What more could you ask for?

You’re halfway through the box of rice and deep in conversation about his upcoming spring semester at Fordham when the weatherman on the tv reveals the upcoming weekly weather report. He trails off at the awful numbers.

“Ugh,” he grunts over noodles, frowning at the bleak, _low_ temperatures, “ _35_. It’s usually not this bad until January.”

You nod briskly, swallowing a bite.

“I know. Vivian isn’t used to winter in the city yet, so she’s been having a rough time.” You show him pictures on your phone of the proof; you’d found her this morning under a comforter in two pairs of pants and a ridiculously fluffy jacket, big beanie covering her entire frustrated head. At least her socks had been festive. 

“Yeah, ‘bout that. Not that I’m not enjoying the time alone, but where _is_ your roommate?” He sets the small container on your knee still tossed across his lap, and checks his watch. “It’s almost 2 a.m.”

“Right now? She’s probably with Matt and Javiar at _Gianni’s_ for last call; they’re taking her back to their apartment. I told her you were coming over and so she called me to . . . what?” 

His expression had soured as your story began, eyebrows pinching together despite how he tries to suppress it. His teeth are grinding, jaw tight, like he’s physically trying to keep his mouth shut. His head tilts to study you, but you’re too curious now not to press. 

“Sonny . . . should she not be there? I can tell them to leave.”

“No, no, she should be fine, if your friends are with her. It’s just —” He closes his eyes for a second, weighing his options. 

He’s got a good feeling that if he tells you anything about what happened after he’d gotten the phone call in the park, you wouldn’t tell a soul if he asked. He knows what complicates everything is your testimony in court; anything revealing your relationship with him to the defense attorney could incriminate what you have to say, and with a case riding on a thin line of evidence, there’s a lot at stake. 

But he’s starting to realize you’re in this mess with him now, within the investigation _and_ as his partner. 

He opens his eyes.

“— it's about the case. I can’t tell you everything, and I’m sorry about that, but here’s what I _can_ say.” Dominick sets aside the Chinese food and collects your legs in his arms. You’re getting more and more concerned for your friend as he picks his way around the truth. “We found some evidence on the man at the bar — his name is Charles Moore, by the way — and it . . . it doesn’t look good for him.”

“Did he get arrested?” You think you already know the answer before he says it.

“Even though we ended up makin’ an official arrest yesterday, he made bail around 4 today. For a man with such _crappy_ hygienics and work ethic, he pulled nearly . . . er, well, I can’t say that. But he paid a _lot_ of money, alright? And we’ve got our eyes on him until he’s due for his day in court, he can’t leave the tristate without a BOLO going off, but—”

“— but he’s free.” You finish.

His brief nod makes the hairs across your skin rise.

“So should Vivian not be at _Gianni’s_? Is there something about the place itself?” You repeat a little more forcefully, pulse racing to your wrists.

“She shouldn’t be anywhere honestly — and _you_ shouldn’t either — look, it’s not just that crappy bar.” His palms tuck under your knees and compress at the joints when you open your mouth to speak. 

Sonny treads the line of sharing too much, but the way you look like you’re going to argue makes his stomach turn.

“I’m bein’ serious here; you’re gonna be hearing from the DA’s office on Monday. This case has been fast tracked to a judge, and even though I honest to God prayed it _wouldn’t_ happen, somehow you’re a part of it all. There’s bad people in New York all the time, but this is different.”

His admission settles in. If you hadn’t been where you were when Charles Moore took to the street to smoke a puff, things would feel more normal. But now your lover looks close to pleading without having to say a word. You can’t imagine the situation he’s in — tasked with protecting the special victims of New York City, and now you too.

“I don’t know much about how court cases work.” You say anxiously, letting your hands set over his. He doesn’t relent on his grip. “What do I need to know? How long do they last?”

“Well, we have a pre-trial hearin’ first, which may or may not happen sometime _this_ week. Then the actual trial can last days after that. But most of the time, it’s several weeks. Rare cases take months, but a case like this, it could be --” 

“Months?” You wince. “I’m down to play hookie from work for a few days as this all starts, but if you’re asking me to take off work until _January_ \--”

“You don’t need to take off work for that long; your part in this should be relatively short. But we _are_ going to figure something else out besides the subway.” He puts his chin in his hand, thinking.

“What do I have to say in front of the jury?” You try to imagine yourself on the stand, with a hundred pairs of eyes sucking in your information like a spunge. What happens if you say the wrong thing? What if you forget something important and it ruins the case? 

“Just the truth.” He can feel your tension. “You don’t need to be scared. Barba -- _ah_ , the ADA is an intense but skilled lawyer. He’ll ask you some questions, even if they’re redundant or strange. It’s what will help us determine if Moore is guilty or not.”

“Well, I might be just biased because he yelled at me, but he seems pretty guilty.” You say grumpily, going back to your food. This was a lot of information to get at once. You still worry about Vivian, and Mia, and Ellen — all the women of _Better Batter_ , of New York.

Dominick speaks after a moment, halting your fretting.

“Not that I’m rooting for the guy in any way, but the point of going through judge and jury is to get to the truth. I’ve had cases with 3 or 4 different suspects rotating the stand. I hope we nailed our perp on the first try with the little evidence we have, but on the chance that we’re _wrong_ , please promise me you’ll be smart on the street.”

“You too.” You combat, sitting back on the pillows. All this talk about making sure you’re safe, like Dominick wasn’t in the crosshairs of a serial killer. You try not to let the sinking fear of losing him cloud your emotions. “If I’m in charge of taking care of myself, so are you.”

“It’s settled then.” His mood lightens, clasping your hands in his. “How ‘bout we just watch out for each other?”

* * *

 **PETE’S TAVERN  
** **129 E 18TH STREET  
** **MANHATTAN, NEW YORK  
** **SUNDAY, DECEMBER 4TH**

* * *

The sound of shattering glass quakes your targeted concentration, resulting in the small origami fold creasing in the wrong spot. Disappointment bugs you, forcing you to start the last step over again. You don’t care enough about the bartender’s dropped flute to look up; the sound of breaking plates was not uncommon at the diner either. 

It’s not like you had much else to do, you reason, with boredom pushing you to entertain yourself in the first place.

The bar wasn’t too crowded, but you recognized law enforcement like a second nature. Like Dominick and your stepdad, they stand like they’re always on the edge, careful and full of stride. Steady hands sit on the waist and hip, feeling secure with the badge and a weapon at a swift reach. There was a lot of responsibility, and a dangerous power there. 

On a few occasions, Sonny had named this pub as one of the places the Special Victims Unit would frequent after grueling shifts. You suspect they’re not the only ones, spotting cops in patrol gear and detectives clad in pricy suits, briefcases hooked and forgotten.

With this in mind when you’d gotten a call at noon to meet him there at 6, you prepared in advance at the prospect of meeting any of his colleagues that might arrive too.

You look a lot better than last time, at least. You’d been snow slick and numb with the weather on the way to the precinct, with a minor wound, and you’d left exhausted in someone else’s donated clothes. This time you’d picked out a grey pencil skirt and maroon turtleneck to hide the nearly faded love bites, after taking way too long struggling into pantyhose. You’d borrowed a pair of heels from Vivian on the way out the door. 

You were nearly 15 minutes late, but your boyfriend hadn’t arrived at all. The clock creaks closer to 7 as you nurse the one drink you’d purchased from the waiter, hopeful that your phone battery would survive the wait. 

Once or twice you catch the eye of more than one man, but you’re happy none make the advance.

You’re just about to call him when you feel someone hovering behind you. You turn when he comes around the table to inspect you, and it’s not Carisi, but it _is_ a face you can place — you recognize him as the other man in Detective Benson’s office. 

You’re starting to wonder if the NYPD was hiring off of looks alone. He’s incredibly handsome too, and well dressed; crispy white sleeves and a navy pinstripe vest. His watch looks like it costs as much as your rent this month. 

He says your name like he’s unsure, but when you nod, he lets out an exasperated sigh of relief and sets his briefcase down on the table. 

“Thank _God_. I asked another woman over there at the bar who resembles you and found out I was wrong; honestly thought she was going to eat me.” He holds out his hand and you shake it back. “Rafael Barba, we met before under poor circumstances. Sonny told me you already know you’re getting called in on the case, so cats out of the bag, I guess. He also says you’re nervous about court?”

Heat blooms your face. 

Dominick had ended up staying the night on Friday, both of you too tired after sleeping together and talking into the wee hours of the morning to go anywhere but the couch you’d dined on. In the morning you’d awoken to his body weight nearly suffocating you into the cushions, all your limbs woven together so you could both fit on the sofa. It was sweet, as uncomfortable as it was too. 

Over a breakfast consisting of a box of sugary cereal and Folgers, you’d asked him more about the trial, bashfully confiding about your nervousness about your involvement. What were the things to say; what do you avoid? Not to mention, you weren’t keen on the idea of facing the suspect again, especially if he _was_ guilty. Would you risk being a target if he’s not charged? 

Dominick had told you all he could without defying the orders of his boss completely, and kissed you sweetly on his way out the door, promising he had a good idea to help you out. 

This wasn’t what you were expecting. 

“I am nervous, yes. I want to help you in any way I can, but I have to admit, this part of the judicial system I’m a little blind to.” You put your chin in your hand as he sits. 

“Well, don’t be.” His blunt confidence makes your eyebrows raise, but the waiter is quick and jumps on your guest before he can say much else. 

Your toes rub together anxiously under the table while you wait. When the man finally disappears to retrieve a cubed scotch, another cocktail for you, and something edible that the DA didn’t need to consult a menu over, Barba leans back and studies you. 

“As I was saying, don’t be. Your testimony is minor; even though you interacted with Moore and were the one to get us a picture that helped identify him, you’re not one of our victims.”

“It’s kinda sad.” You take a big swig of your drink for the women who died. “That they don’t get to tell us what happened.”

“It’s one of the worst parts, yeah.” He agrees solemnly, watching you. Curious.

When Carisi had pulled him aside yesterday on a now daily round at One PP and asked for a favor, he guessed it would have something to do with you. With such a close knit unit, there weren’t secrets for very long, and even the attorney could see something was up with Sonny the last few weeks. 

After mildly glossing the details of your relationship, the detective had asked Barba to give you a run down of the process of law a day early, and in person. He didn’t really need an explanation why, knowing the pressure of criminal cases on civilians, and it wasn’t exactly against the rules for Barba to talk to you either, so here he sits. 

“How much do you know?” He questions after the bartender drops off the drinks and some wrapped silverware. You squint, feeling tested. 

“About the case, or the trial?”

“Both. Case first.” He amends, giving you that.

You take a moment to think about everything you’ve heard, everything you sat through. Countless sentences from different people over a few dozen different conversations piece together into your story.

“When I met Dominick, I —”

“Detective Carisi.” He interrupts over a sip of Bowmore, the wolffish bite of the scotch flooding warmth through his chest. The skyline had dipped and took the temperature with it, and there was no better heater than liquor. “The defense attorney has no reason to believe you and Sonny are together, and we should try to keep it that way.”

“Why?” The question hovers and tips off your tongue before you can stop yourself. You had a general idea of the circumstances of the two of you being involved, but if your part was so minor, what was the point?

“You seem like a smart woman. Imagine you’re the DA, and you find out the arresting officer who cuffed your client is sleeping with the person who turned him in. There’s the possibility of claiming police coercion since you’re testifying — they could say the NYPD is unjustly using you to pin the crime on Moore based off of your interaction in the street despite our evidence. It could mean the case.”

“Oh.” Your stomach rolls. You would have to try to be insensitive on the stand then. “Does that mean you got something from the cigar he was smoking?” 

“Yes, actually.” He’s a little surprised by your interest in the details, but it makes him understand why Dominick was so obsessed with you. This work wasn’t for the faint of heart, but despite the way goosebumps rise on your skin, there’s a look in your eye like you’re not afraid of this man, or any there is. Like you’re ready for the fight too. 

_Bueno,_ he thinks. 

“Moore left a partial thumbprint on Hannah Gomez’s arm that we were able to compare it to. He’s claiming he did touch her shoulder while trying to ask her out, but says she left right after and that’s the last time he saw her. It’s enough that we’re trying him for rape and Murder I.”

You feel a bit of relief to hear your assistance in all this was actually fruitful, figuring this was the part of the story Dominick wasn’t allowed to talk about. 

“And what about the other girls?” You don’t know their names, but the way his face falls, you’re scared you’ll never know. 

“Hannah was the only one we could get him for. There’s just not enough evidence for me to even try it with the others unless he confesses over a deal.” 

The waiter swings back by with a dish and a few porcelain side plates, rich with steaming calamari and fried shrimp. You’re trying to think of the next thing to ask him, but he beats you to it as soon as the server retreats back to the other tables.

“You were telling me what you know. Try again; it might be beneficial to practice now before you take the stand, so don’t leave anything out if you can.”

“When I met Detective Carisi, he and Detective Tutuola came into the restaurant I work at and asked about a man in a really poor quality photo. I didn’t know him, but I remembered his hat.” You start hesisitantly, thinking back to your first meeting with Dominick. You’d been enthralled on the spot, at that diner table for two, with lingering glances and sweet talking over the crappy security camera picture.

“Alright.” He nods, taking a bite of the appetizer in the center of the table. You do the same, enjoying the lush flavor. Rafael surely knew his food. “Keep going.”

“Okay, uh — after they left, I remember my boss telling our sous chef that he’d seen the guy outside of _Gianni’s_. I know it’s involved the investigation because that’s where Hannah was found, but I know it as a bar a lot of the service industry workers go to after work, including me.”

“Can you remember a time where you saw Moore before this, after getting a better look at him?” Barba doubts you have, with that being information he’d classify as crucial. He would have read it in your initial statement, or the new case file he’d briefed before meeting you here. He asks just because in a few days he’d do it the same way in front of the jury.

“No, sorry.” You shake your head and swallow a tasty, spicy bite. You’re getting more comfortable with the interrogation, and you’re suddenly very glad Dominick came up with this impromptu meeting. If this was the general flow of the conversation between the two attorneys and you, it would be something you could handle. “I’m usually better with faces than names, but I don’t believe we ever met until the night on the street.” 

“The night where you took a picture of Moore, what was he like? Why did you take the picture in the first place?” He points his fork at you, prongs like a weapon. “And be descriptive.”

“I took the picture because I assumed it could be important information for the NYPD.” 

The way you pause says what you both know but can’t say: Dominick had still kept you up to date on the case, seeing no reason not to divulge the information before your night at the precinct. You had known the importance of getting it.

You think on your feet, picking a different route. 

“My father is a retired cop, and I know how even the smallest detail can help. I watch the news every day, and no new information ever came up.”

You get your first smile from the lawyer halfway through his glass, mouth turning up over the rim. You were proving to be as intelligent as he thought you’d be.

“That’s good. But now about Moore.”

“He seemed angry. It was probably because he heard me take the photo of him, but . . . generally just intoxicated and mean.” You cross your arms over your chest, recalling the puffy, furious look. “When I didn’t say anything, he started to come towards me so I ran.”

“Why didn’t you just call the police?” His eyebrows shoot up. You both know the answer, especially since he'd been lounging in Sergeant Benson's chair when you'd arrived at the 16th. But practice makes perfect.

“I fell outside of the restaurant, broke my phone and lost my wallet too.” Your lips turn down with embarrassment. “Not my proudest moment. I ended up making my way to the precinct anyways; I’m a resident of Manhattan, so I know my way.”

“You were right to bring it to Olivia.” His voice is kind, no longer as sharply edged like a lawyer.

You wonder if that’s the end of the little exchange. He scuffs the last shrimp across the plate and offers it to you, like a peace offering. There’s something softer in his tone when he brings up Detective Benson. You pretend not to hear it as he continues.

“She gets things moving immediately, and we had him in custody by the next morning.”

“I know — I saw on tv actually.” Your reply is honest. You’d woken up drained and restless, astonished to see Moore’s detainment on the midday news. 

You and Barba move on from your testimony to your actual appearance in front of the jury. You’re on courtroom etiquette and how to address the judge if he asks you anything when approaching feet and conversation makes you both hush up. 

“— hey, sorry we’re late; Chief gave us an earful about talking to reporters.” A blonde officer apologizes and shakes out the snow in her hood, shedding her NYPD jumper as soon as they arrive at the table.

Dominick is in tandem beside her, eyes lingering on your outfit, the flush in your cheeks. The primped bun, dewy makeup. You’d gone for gold tonight and won. His palms sweat, wanting to put his hands all over you, but he holds off with the internal reasoning he’d get the chance later. 

You and Amanda Rollins introduce yourselves to one another, and to her growing baby bump. You’d heard lots of good things about your boyfriend’s partner, and though you very rarely felt green, you feel a mild twinge of jealousy in her presence. She was very pretty.

“So you’re the one supplying us with the pastries, right?” She seems kind though, jousting you like she's offering a deal to a perp. She squishes next to Barba at the high table you and the ADA had been occupying. Sonny kisses your temple in front of them all, at once hushing your mild trepidation as he takes the spot beside you. “I gotta say, the multi-flavored cannolis that keep showing up are rocking my world right now.”

“It’s hard to find a place that does ‘em right, but _Better Batter_ certainly is one of them.” Dominick praises your establishment with a hungry stomach, thinking back to his last meal there with Bella. He picks up the drink menu in the center of the table like he didn’t plan on ordering the same thing as always. You can’t fight your smile. 

“My head chef studied abroad, traveling country to country and studying desserts from exotic places before opening up in Manhattan.” You finish off your second cocktail, sliding it to the side. It catches the bartender's attention, and you see the waiter making his way back. “He would be happy to hear you compliment his work.” 

Rafael gives his take on European pastries as Amanda and Dominick order drinks and bar food.

You try to pay attention to the story you’re being told about the ADA’s trip to London last year, but Sonny’s hand tucks his phone into his jacket pocket discreetly, and sneakily falls to snuggle on your thigh. He doesn’t do anything more than slide the palm across the material of your pantyhose once, but the weight of his touch riles you up and eases your nerves at the same time. 

The conversation comes easy for a while. You find you like them both for their own quirks and attitudes: Amanda was more steely and cool, providing favorable commentary, while Barba matches your wit and sarcastic flair at most turns. 

You still have yet to meet a man named Mike, and your interactions with Detective Tutuola have been wordless encounters, but you’re finding your own way with the squad before you. You talk about yourself when they ask, and a little bit more about the case when it was your turn to deliver questions.

When the chatter finally simmers down and the hours have ticked by, it’s Sonny who makes the executive call to wrap it up. He knows they all work bright and early tomorrow, even you, and he’s still not done with you yet. 

“Thank you for your help tonight, Rafael.” You put a hand on his shoulder when you all button into your jackets near the front door. There’s kindness in your eyes as Carisi fixes your upturned collar. You smile wide. “I really appreciate it. I guess I’ll see you in a few days.”

“Likewise.” He pats your hand on him once, peering between you and Sonny’s closely shared space. Amanda gets a phone call, and steps aside as the pair of you bristle under his knowing look. “My biggest advice to you is to just relax. And arrive the day of separately, _please_. And drink lots of coffee — it’ll be a long one.”

“Easy. Coffee is our love language, ain't that right, Doll?” Dominick laughs as the four of you take to the street. You try not to blush too hard at his words, ears ringing. 

_I guess it is._ You don’t say it out loud, but gazing at Sonny’s content expression as little snowflakes dust him, you think it might be true.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i know i said we were going to court this round but the chapter alone was already 10 pages long so im cutting it in half lol. i hope every chapter so far has made you hungry.
> 
> its been a while since ive been this dedicated to a fic, but on god i'm fluent in this story. i'll see you next time. 
> 
> \-- bagels xo
> 
> ps. BARBA'S BACK IN 2021 BITCHES WE EATIN GOOD


	8. Salt & Pepper

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Your first day in court.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey yall i know its been an actual MONTH im so sorry for the late update its good news this time tho????? i actually moved!!! its been such a long process since we had so much shyte to get rid but ive been steadily writing this chapter in between work and life and now i present to you: a doozy of an update.

* * *

**CLEARSIDE APARTMENTS  
** **9001 CLEARSIDE DRIVE APT #417  
** **MANHATTAN, NEW YORK  
** **MONDAY, DECEMBER 12TH**

* * *

Wind whistles by outside like furious birds as a morning storm rolls in. It’s so cold that your bones feel brittle beneath your skin. You can’t imagine what it’s going to feel like stepping outside when there’s thin ice crystallizing on the glass window, casting orange streaks of light from the streetlight outside across the humming apartment. Sonny’s fluffy sweater and a heavy pair of pants does nothing to help with the fact that your powerful but elderly space heater finally gave out and died in the middle of the night. 

At some point Vivian had crawled into your bedsheets, seeking shelter from the frosty draft of December that leisurely blankets Manhattan. You don’t mind, glad to have the extra heat on the queen sized mattress.

Her spine is flush against yours as you stare at the alarm clock in horror. You still had two hours before it was meant to go off, but try as you might — sleep never settles back to you. You were haunted by the adrenaline of a terrifying dream, but the content was already fading from consciousness. Now anxious worries of the day force your eyes open, watching the swift snowflakes pattern the fresh horizon. The landlord would be sending a repair man by some time after noon to fix the heater, but you wouldn't be at home to meet him. 

It’s been a week since you’d officially gotten the call from the district attorney’s office to report to Foley Square on the 12th, and you had cleared your schedule for the next three days in the case of your part of the trial running longer than just this morning. 

You conceal your nervous, dark circles and apply mascara in silence after taking a steamy and therapeutic shower, ignoring the way the lack of sleep makes you feel a lot less sharp. You try to be somewhat graceful without any coffee charging up your system, throwing your hair into a tight bun that holds with tough hairspray.

Creaking across your floorboards with swift padding, you swap a bathrobe for something appropriate -- pairing grey pants and a periwinkle turtleneck. You’re more concerned with staying warm than arriving in style, picking out the pocket bottoms of a tan jacket in the closet. Your alarm _does_ finally break the day at 6, but you subdue the awful noise before it rouses your roommate. 

Heading in the kitchen, you get a hearty brew going and scavenge the nearly empty fridge for something to put in your system. 

The last week had been full of activity; when you weren’t working extra shifts to make up for your upcoming time off, you tried your best to see Carisi. You’d spent a few nights throughout the week by his side, evenings tending to start late and turn into even earlier mornings. You both run near exhausted on top of your normal lives. 

Still, the time was spent learning each other -- the way you laugh when no one else is around, what kind of music he likes to listen to when he drives, what it was like to wake up and get manhandled by sensual kisses. You wouldn’t trade it for a couple more hours of sleep.

Tuesday you had gone to his place for the first time, treating him to a new recipe you and Vivian had tried perfecting with the help of your sous chef. Like you expected, it was a clean and homey environment — everything Sonny. Tidy, dark wood furniture compliments the glass frames of his family, shelves littered in paraphernalia and a lot of textbooks. It smelled like him in there, spicy and fresh leather. He had deposited his gun and badge in a safe, shedding his coat down to the suspenders, before joining you in the kitchen.

You melt as you toss a bagel into the toaster, remembering the ghost of his touch. He’d spent an hour or two after enjoying dinner working from home on a hefty steel desk adjacent to your perch on the loveseat, pen scratching. You were used to freshly pressed suits and scratchy jeans, but a dark set of sweatpants and golden age Yankees t-shirt exposed burly forearms, increasing your blood pressure and curling your toes. 

You weren’t pretending to be a good influence, periodically catching his gaze through batting lashes. Dominick had given up all hope on getting his work completed when you’d succumbed to the boredom of your cell phone, standing and slinking between him and the iridescent screen. You’d gambled with his reaction, closing the lid to the laptop without further ado. He’d counted his blessings and resisted touching you for a full minute, letting you tease and strip out of your top for him, popping one button of your jeans. 

The sex had been so fucking fantastic you’d nearly cried, tears pooling at the corners — bent over with a big hand pinning your shoulders to the homework you were interrupting. You liked when Sonny calls you a good girl, but you’d earned a new nickname as a brat.

Vivian had listened to your advice and opted out of going to _Gianni’s_ on Friday, instead spending the night conversing with you and the detective at your place over a pretty intense game of Monopoly and wine. You’re glad your two worlds are colliding like star systems, wondering if he felt the same — after all, the Special Victims Unit had seen you midday on Wednesday, when you and your roommate had surprised them with free pastries from the restaurant. 

Olivia Benson had smiled softly at you over her croissant before going back to typing, and a little piece of you felt accepted. 

You would see them again today, too, but you don’t feel as excited to be in their presence. The circumstances were incredibly bleak — you’re struggling to find your courage under the pressure, and a fuzzy tingle in your gut feels like a bad sign of the hours to come.

You’re on your second cup of coffee as you thumb through Twitter, but you stop when a couple trending headlines read familiar. You try to ignore the hazardous tension that shakes your hands as you scan through tweets, blurbs of news reports coming in by the minute.
    
    
     **The New York Times** [@nytimes](////)  
    
    Suspect tried in NY Supreme Court trial -- details on the serial killer at t.co/49fsdff89  
    
      
    
    **Eyewitness News** [@ABC7NY](///////)  
    
    CHARLES MOORE -- RAPIST TRIED FOR MURDER — LIVE AT 8 t.co/8d84k33

The replies are unyielding and cruel, citizens of New York City calling for his blood. You’re tempted to read the articles, but you’re not given the chance to try; an incoming call rattles the bright device in your hand.

“Mom?” You lower as you pick up. “Why are you calling me at six am?”

“ _Please_ , you must be kidding. Your father snores like a tractor truck and rolls out of bed at 5.” 

You’d been gone from home for long, you’d just about forgotten the sound of his massive feet slapping across the wood floors at the crack of dawn. The way he would try to be silent but mirrored a bumbling animal shot in the ass foresting through the woods. It used to jostle you from slumber, but in the same way, you always found it a comfort to know he was home safe for another night.

Across the line, you hear her close a door behind her.

“But I had this _suspicion_ after our talk yesterday, and then I turn on the news this morning and . . .”

You don’t say a word. She presses on.

“. . . is there anything you’d like to talk to me about?”

Your grimace, sinking down further in the wood chair. Your family could have been a trio of really powerful sleuths in another life. Your stepfather was already coached to be paranoid and observant; growing up with his careful eyes made any funny business a joking matter. Your mother had no academy training, yet could somehow smell bullshit from Buffalo to NYC. And then there was you. You wouldn’t be in this mess at all if you’d minded your business in the first place. 

Yesterday she had called you in the middle of a morning out with Matt at a swanky new anime coffee shop closer to his place in upper Manhattan. Javiar was unable to join the two of you, swarmed with seasonal deadlines at work. He was a successful and wealthy man, who doted and loved on his boyfriend every moment of every day. Matt was being treated the way you knew he deserved. It had hurt to see him move out, but the two of you had been friends since childhood. Nothing would ever change that.

The pair of you were discussing the outstanding play by play of a post-season Red Sox game when she’d called, questioning about your lack of communication over the last few weeks. You’d said something nervously about Sonny and some time off — and now here you sit, miles and miles away, yet experiencing the sensation of sour expression on her pretty face she’d given you growing up. 

“No.” You lie, at first, but she sighs a certain way that is evident she knows, and you cave. “Yes. But you can’t tell Dad. Something happened.”

“Saints, okay.” The springs of a mattress squeak as she plops down. “Are you alright?”

“Yes.” You twist a piece of the bagel off and pop it in your mouth.

It takes about twenty minutes with her bullet questions, but you fill her in with what you can. You almost feel like laughing, realizing how difficult Dominick must have had it tearing apart the truth for the sake of confidentiality in the past. 

While you talk, the apartment feels like the cooler at the restaurant, only you can’t escape the way it prickles your skin. You're so tired dark spots pop in and out of your vision in the pale kitchen light, but you finish your tale as you slide your feet into a pointed heel. You had to try to focus.

“. . . but, that’s all I can say. I’m about to leave actually, if I want to catch a taxi and beat traffic. I can tell you more after, but I have to go. I promise everything’s okay, mom, it’s just a crappy situation.”

“Okay. I believe you. Good luck, darling. I don’t really like that you’re going to be a part of this, but I’m so proud of you no matter what happens. You’ve always been so brave.” She says sincerely. Her words alleviate a weight on your shoulders you didn’t know was keeping you chained down. Feeling a little more free as you collect your purse from the table, you're halfway through a choked up goodbye and out the door when your phone buzzes again against your ear. You switch lines, locking the door behind you. 

“G’morning?” You greet Sonny as you take a big sip of coffee, squashing the tremor of your tone. The brew is piping hot and tasty, keeping temperature in a small pink thermos. The wind feels like little razor blades across your face, drying out the water glistening on your lashes. 

“Mornin’, _baby_.” His voice is scruffy, like he’s only just woken up. You imagine the untamed hair, the stubble of his jaw he expertly shaves away every morning. Your mouth waters at the memory of saddling across his sluggish body, scratchy beard tickling you in all the best ways in all the right spots. “Hope ya slept better than I did . . .”

“Yeah,” You lie for the second time today, twisting the jacket straps to your body. It makes you feel better muffling his worries, “got up earlier than I wanted, but I’m ready to do this. I’m actually outside — and it’s _freezing_.”

There’s a deep, sleepy exhale over the other end, and the sound of mattress springs shifting. 

“Wish I could drive ya’, _‘specially_ since Barba will be in chambers for a while before we even get started. I’d be ready to wait when you get there.” 

You kick mumps and lumps of snow off the stoop as you hit the streets, sidewalk barren of people — except the peppy woman who jogs by every morning regardless of the weather. You step out of her way as she zooms by, little tracks of snow kicking up as she goes. 

“Sarg’ and I are riding together, but we’re plannin’ on getting there by 7:30 at the latest. Dodds is coming too.”

Rafael had told you to arrive closer to seven. You’ve started to get the picture on what a process court trials are; the pre-hearing had already taken place, and Sonny had told you it had taken nearly three hours for the judge to be done with his first case to see theirs, _despite_ the urgency. You try not to feel agitated, and blame the lack of sleep for the tremor in your demeanor. Normally you had better control. 

“Where should I meet you?” Biting at your thumbnail, you glance at the digital clock on your screen. You had 30 minutes to hail a taxi and arrive, giving yourself some extra time with Monday morning city congestion. Already as you plunder through the environment, life springs up around you. A UPS truck veers a left; a couple walks their energetic dogs to the corner. 

“ _Well_ , you’re gonna need to sign in as a witness on the first floor, so bring ID.” You roll your eyes; his mild bossiness was ever present. Of course you had your ID. “The trial will be on the third floor. We’ll be there, and we’ll help you find your way from there.”

“Okay.” You’re not sure what else to say, and the silence lasts too long. 

“Don’t think too hard about it.” He’s reading you from over the receiver. You can hear it in his voice. “It’ll be over before ya' know it.”

You murmur in agreement, but the feeling in your gut never fades.

* * *

**NEW YORK SUPREME COURTHOUSE  
** **60 CENTRE STREET  
** **MANHATTAN, NEW YORK  
** **MONDAY, DECEMBER 12TH**

* * *

The leather chair on the stand still feels warm from the last person who sat in it. 

You now know it was the ex-wife of Charles Moore, who you’d passed by briskly on the way in. She was a mess, sobbing, clinging onto the court officer who expressly escorted her out with makeup and snot dripping down her heart shaped face. You hadn’t been in the room when Barba and the other man interrogated her -- not Moore’s first lawyer, who’d sprung him from the precinct; replaced by a skilled defense attorney named Mathew Trainer. Sonny had politely called “a real scumbag”, already exchanging a heated debate in the court lobby minutes before you’d arrived. 

The pair of attorneys had questioned her on the past abuse claims filed against the man on trial in 2005, but the look on Dominick and Olivia’s faces are grim as you rigidly roost before the jury. You can’t imagine it bodes for anything good.

Dominick has a pretty good knack for telling when a situation is going sour. 

Charles Moore huffs like a bull before the gates come down, rumbling under his breath at the mahogany table a yard away. He’s red and flustered as his record lays exposed — combed through in front of the all seeing eyes of the courtroom. He was a terrible husband who’d lived a life hopping job to job in the hustle of paying for his alcoholism. He’d relentlessly beat on his wife until she finally fled, leaving him alone for over a decade. There’s chunks of his timeline still unaccounted for; even with his abuse allegations brought forth by his ex, there was nothing else heinous besides a few drunken bar fights and one public indecency. 

But he’s puffing air out now like he’s about to say something out of order, peering at where you sit on the stand with a mix of disbelief and fury. 

Sonny had come to know you well in your month together. When you’d popped off the elevator right on time, he’d turned away from his watch to see you coming. You looked like class and business, yet your heels click slower than normal, and the sleepy, hollow uneasiness on your lovely face gives away your tension about being here. He wanted to comfort you somehow, but you’d come to stand at the side of the Special Victims Unit with a steel look. You could handle this on your own.

“Can you tell the jurors your relationship to Charles Moore?” 

Barba is resting leisurely against the brass table across the way in a dark as night suit, starting with no foreplay. When you meet each other's gaze in front of an eerily silent room, the bubbling fear fluttering about in your stomach starts to fizz out. You’d done this with him before -- there was nothing to worry about. You lean into the microphone more, finding the courage to use your voice.

“There isn’t one. We’ve never met, officially.” You say.

“But you’re here for a reason.” Rafael nods, reaching behind him to grab a grey folder. It looks heavy, loose papers peeking from the corners. “Can you tell us what happened on the night of November 27th?”

The words come out on cue, but you’re foggy and don’t feel yourself say them as you puzzle together your story for the people. Sonny’s head tilts to the side when he finally realizes you’re not focused on any one particular thing -- it’s an attempt to not to look at Charles Moore at all. You recall every detail you’d mentally rehearsed for days, trying not to forget a thing; the time it was when you took the picture, to the negative and harsh way he’d spoken to you from the patio. You go as far to even give the specifics of the 7-11 you’d found shelter in. 

You near the crescendo, but it all comes crashing down when you make the mistake of taking one fast look at the suspect. 

If he could tear you apart with his bare hands, you’re positive he would. He clenches in his cuffs like he’s considering breaking his wrists just to get out of them, eyeline lasered onto you. That gut feeling from the early morning slinks back in, and rocks your cool. 

Now that he knows he has your attention, Moore can’t contain himself any longer and bursts out like a firework.

“You _stupid_ bitch,” Moore wretches, chair squealing as he sputters and stands. You wince at his audacity to be so crass and loud in such a quiet environment. The judge smacks her gavel to hush the murmuring echoing wall to wall, and your ears sing from being so close to the pallet it bangs against. Over the frightening disruption, you can still hear him say, “you’re gonna get me locked up -- _fuck_ \--”

The defense attorney does everything in his power to silence his client. You try to refocus in the coming moments, heart pulsing in your wrists and ears. You shake your head and find a home back with Dominick’s secure glance.

“Uh -- a-and after _realizing_ that, I decided to take the cellphone to the NYPD. It was really late by then . . . but Detective Benson was there and took it from me while Sonny took me to an interrogation room to clean up some scrapes I’d gotten in the fall. They took my statement, and then we went home. After that I’m not sure I ever . . .”

You nearly stop speaking again when you realize what you’d said. None of the jurors bat an eye at your boyfriend’s name, but in your panic you peer from Barba, Dominick, and the DA. The suspect’s lawyer was already tuned in to your folly, abandoning his huffing partner and turning his frame a bit to follow the line your eyes make to the Special Victims Unit. Barba taps at his watch once, letting you know it was time to wrap it up.

“-- but yeah.” You finish while holding your breath. “That was the last time I saw Mr. Moore before today.”

“Thank you. No further questions.” Barba addresses the judge with a forced smile, turning on his heels to take his seat. You feel heavy with the weight of what you’d done already, eyes pinching together once to clear the adrenaline rush pounding through your head -- but there’s not enough time to worry about it before the movement of the opposing lawyer standing breaks your concentration. He’s a tall, blonde, hunk of a man, but his looks mean nothing to you in the wake of your screw up.

“You said you’re a waitress in Manhattan. At a restaurant near where Hannah Gomez was discovered.” He’s got his own set of documents in hand, looking between the two of them carefully before moving on. “What led you to take a picture of my client? You have no prior connections to this case.”

“I knew about it after meeting with Detective Carisi and Tutuola when they first started investigating.” You repeat just like you did with Barba at _Pete’s Tavern_. “I just thought it would be important information for the police to have. My father is ex-NYPD, so I understand the devil’s in the details.” 

Trainer frowns at you, clearly unhappy with your evasion of what a handful of you now knew. There’s a moment where it’s just the two of you in front of everyone, silently waiting for the next move. 

“So you’re close to the NYPD, then?” He pushes. You’re under oath, and you can’t lie, and heat rushes to your ears and the apples of your cheeks.

“My father is retired, and I know many officers who have or still serve.” You feel like you’re playing chess, though you don’t move a muscle as you speak, hands gripped together tightly in your lap. You don’t dare look at anyone but the lawyer now, finding a poker face despite the chaotic fuzz in your brain. You needed to sleep. Or more coffee. Maybe to cry. His eyebrow line raises.

“How close?”

“Objection.” Barba tosses out with an annoyed expression. “Relevance?”

“Make your point.” The judge agrees, so Trainer switches up his tactic.

“You mentioned you went to a 7-11 before taking the device to the 16th precinct. Why not just report the crime there?” He sets aside his folder and takes a few steps towards you. If this was a game of chest, you’re nervous you were on the losing side of the board.

“I did try, but I lost my wallet in the fall. The payphone needed quarters --”

“-- you couldn’t just ask someone to borrow a cellphone? The attendee? A passerby. With over 8 million people in New York City, you walked all the way to the police department in the middle of the night.”

“I knew the way.” You say honestly, unsure of where he was going. “It wasn’t one of my smartest ideas, but I was a little freaked out. I know how serious of a situation this is.”

“I’m sorry about that, honey,” You see red along thin edges of his condescending tone, “but remind me of how you know this?”

“Objection. Really?” Rafael barks, his professional and pristine demeanor slipping like sand the more the DA harrasses you. He can see the way you’re trying to dodge every jab like the fighter he knows you are; he would do everything he could to be in your corner now. This doesn’t mean you were out for the count yet. “What does this have to do with _anything_ relating to Moore? She’s already given her statement.”

“Can we approach, your Honor?” Trainer counters without hesitation.

“I don’t have all day, gentlemen.” She replies with a deep sigh, defeated. 

Trainer keeps your gaze until he’s an arms length away, unflattering you with a winking and casting his dashing smile at the judge. You want to knock the successful look off his face. Barba is in quick and in tow, crossing his arms over his chest as they stand as different as the sun and the moon before the irritated frown of Judge Garcia. They’re speaking so softly even from here you only catch the words “legitimacy”, “evidence”, and “dismissal”. 

Barba’s lingering stare feels like he’s wishing you good luck.

You're panicking just a little as they break from discussion -- it’s written in your body language, in the way your eyes dart to the DA, and the suspect, and the jury, and Dominick hates it. He doesn’t know how to help, because there’s really nothing he can do for you right now except sit here and wait until the hard part was over. Olivia nudges him supportively when he leans his elbows onto his knees, head tucked onto his hands to study the scene better. Mike is beside them, frowning and unsure.

“Can you tell me your relationship with the Special Victims Unit -- the detectives in charge of investigating and arresting my client, that is?” Trainer isn’t speaking to you anymore; reeling in the jury with the truth.

“I . . .” You remind yourself that you're under oath, and bowing your head, you let him checkmate your king piece. “ . . . I am close to a few members of the department.”

“How close?” He repeats himself again. You chew on your cheek, looking to the judge.

“Answer him, sweetie.” She prompts you kindly, and you’re enlightened to find out she might just be on your side.

“I have had several meetings with the Special Victims Unit outside of this case. And,” you look at Dominick, and when he nods once, you know it’ll be okay regardless of what you say. It warms you to see no traces or anger on his face -- just mild concern, “I’m in a relationship with Detective Carisi.”

“Oh.” Trainer feigns surprise, and you glower hotly as he takes a few steps in your direction. “One of the lead officers on this case. Is this a relatively new relationship?”

“Objection.” Barba nearly throws his hands up.

“This isn’t story time.” Judge Garcia isn’t very impressed with Mathew Trainer either.

“What I mean is,” hands smooth down his tie, leaning his massive frame against the edge of the edge of your stand. You can smell the aftershave pooling at his nape, and a harsh waft of cologne still stuck to the material of his suit as he takes his aim and fires, “did this relationship start after the Detectives began their initial investigation of my client, or before?”

“Well, we met and started dating. I worked my job and saw Mr. Moore.” Beneath the cool, shady feeling you have from getting yourself in this engagement, the embers of a fire spring to life. Your eyes narrow at his prodding. “I’d like to think of them as two separate occurrences. Who I’m seeing doesn’t mean that what I said isn’t true.”

“It could, actually.” Trainer chuckles a little, and you openly give him a look for the whole room to see. “Who’s to say the detectives you seem to care about so much didn’t rush into arresting the wrong man on the word that you think he’s dangerous? Especially if you’re sleeping with one of them.”

“Objection.” You're pretty sure even Barba is sick of trying to get this guy to shut up, pressing his forefingers to his temple. “Speculation. And rude.”

“Overruled.” Garcia ponders, and to your horror, she seems to be understanding Trainer’s train of thought.

“Did the NYPD tell you Charles Moore was a danger, then?” He cocks his head to the side.

“No. When Detective Carisi and Tutuola came into _Better Batter_ for the first time, they showed me a sketch and a really bad picture of a suspect from a security camera. The only reason I recognized Moore was his hat. I’m a Red Sox fan.” You admit, hoping anything at all would help corroborate your statement. “I know there’s a criminal on the streets, and I was just doing my part to help.”

“But it could be any man, in that first photo.” He turns back to his client, and snatches a little remote from the large desk. “Right?”

A monitor perched on the screen flashes through a few photos to get to the one he was searching for, and you and a few others gasp with disgust -- a few gangly pictures of deceased women flitter by, on a steel table, surrounded by medical tools and yellow frame markers. This wasn’t the first time today the courtroom had been privy to the massacre, but it was the first time for you, and the blood in your body runs cold.

You push the chair you’ve snuggled into further away to distance yourself from the horror, and look to the ceiling a little too late. The image of their bodies still feels burned into your corneas.

“You haven’t had any contact with Mr. Moore except the ‘altercation’ at the bar, yes?”

“No, I have not.” You’re still looking at the ceiling, trying your best to forget. “We’d n-never met, and the NYPD arrested him the next morning.”

“You took a picture of a man, minding his business, wearing the same color hat as any other guy on the street because you were told by the police, or maybe your boyfriend, that he was a killer. And now it seems the NYPD is trying the only man they’ve been able to get their hands on after months of brutality with a broken phone and a pissed off alcoholic. Is the Special Victims Unit is using this witness just to ease the fear of the public --”

“ -- there’s got to be more than enough to prove it, right? Or they wouldn’t be here trying --” You try to speak up again, praying somehow your picture wasn’t the only thing holding this case together anymore. Wasn’t there a thumbprint? Some story Moore had made up? But Trainer speaks over you, coming to Judge Garcia.

“-- in lue of this new information, your Honor, I’d like to make a motion to dismiss this witness and her evidence as a viable source for this case.”

Barba springs up out of his chair like it electrocutes him, and Olivia makes a low noise through her teeth next to Dominick, already typing away on her cellphone a relay to the rest of the unit what was happening. He had seen it coming from the moment the Judge let Trainer continue picking you apart, but it doesn’t make the sting of loss hurt any less.

It’s about a half an hour after you’ve been escorted out that the courtroom finally breaks for the day. 

You’re waiting patiently against a rotund, pale white pillar at the middle of the supreme court building stairs, kicking at your heels. You’d forgotten your jacket at your feet in the lightning fast argument between the two attorneys that ended with the same outcome: you knew too much, you’d said too much, and now your relationship had cost the legitimacy of your involvement with the NYPD’s case.

The air is frosty in spite of the sun at midday, and the sky is barren of color, but you’ve long since forgotten your coat and embraced the cold like a wakeup call. You've already moved on from the embarrassment, and were focused on trying not to beat yourself up too much. But it’s not easy when you know you just blew a big chunk of the case for Sonny and your new friends.

You partially blame your space heater for dying, but only a little. You probably wouldn’t have felt any more rested if it had been working anyways. 

“Hey,” you jump at a hand at your low back, before it soothes up the center of your spine. Sinking into the touch is as natural as breathing now, “I can feel you thinking from here. It’s okay.”

Turning to face your boyfriend, you don’t know what to answer, because what was there to say? It wasn’t _exactly_ okay, and now the only evidence tying Moore to Hannah Gomez was a partial thumb print and his not exactly airtight alibi. With Trainer feeding seeds of disbelief to the jury, you’re afraid that the trial was falling apart.

Olivia and Rafael are descending the flight a few feet back, journeying through conversation about something you were too sad to listen in on. You just peer back from one blue eye to the next. With no reason to pretend otherwise, Dominick’s hand leaves your back to squeeze your fingertips instead. He notices his hands are hot to the touch in comparison to yours, and it makes you shiver. Realizing how _cold_ you must be standing without your most important layer, he unbuttons the brass knuckle to his pea coat and tosses it over your quaking shoulders despite your halfhearted protesting. In the end it feels like home away from home.

“Well, that could have gone better.” Barba exhales, feeling his pockets for his cellphone. 

“Still, you did a good job.” Olivia puts one, steady hand on your shoulder, squeezing the muscle and flesh appreciatively twice before letting you go. You don’t think she will ever know what the gesture meant to you. “We only had one weakness with you, ya’ know? And he found it.”

“Moore spooked you, don’t worry, this isn’t on you.” Barba agrees, putting the receiver up to his ear. You can hear the outgoing call tone when he continues. “You held your own. Not every day your witness argues back; Trainer had to work for it -- one second, _hey_ , it’s Rafael, I need a favor . . .”

He takes the steps a few yards away, leaving you with Detective Carisi and Benson. You're not entirely sure what to do from here; you know the squad has a full Monday morning’s worth of work to do, bad guys to prosecute, law to enforce. But you had taken days off on the idea you wouldn’t have ruined your statement in the first match. 

Suddenly you saw a long nap and day drinking in your future. If you were lucky, you’d convince your roommate to take off work and enjoy the pity party with you.

“Where’s Dodds?” Sonny curiously turns his head and looks for their other squadmate.

“On the phone with the Chief.” Olivia rubs her throbbing forehead, finding her own courage for the impending disagreement ahead of her. She, like the rest of her colleagues, had decided you were a kind person, with good intentions, and a positive influence on Sonny. Going to bat for your relationship with Detective Carisi wouldn’t be the easiest thing she’d do this month, but ultimately your involvement to the case was severely circumstantial, and Trainer had taken advantage of it.

And just as she thinks of him, Sargent Benson’s peripheral vision is shaded by the DA himself, briskly making his way down the court steps to the trio you three make. Carisi spots him too, before you, large fingers suddenly making a fist in the material of his jacket at your back protectively. Anger boils up in your sternum, making you huff out a puff of visible air. 

“Great day in court, SVU.” Mathew grins, coming to a stop just as he hits the same ledge you three converse at. “Probably wouldn’t have been my day if you had maybe _just_ considered previously mentioning that the officers at the 16th had a cute little pet waiting for them at home.”

“Save it, alright? This is barely a setback, and you’re wrong if you think you don’t have a storm coming.” Benson barks out like a caged dog, striking just a little bit of fear into the attorney as she instructs you and Carisi to start walking with just her hands. DA’s always got cocky until the truth revealed itself, and the Staff Sergeant would find pleasure in watching this case ride out the judicial system to the last day.

“Are you badgering my witness, kid?” Barba had returned, looking between the feral looks on the faces of his friends, and Trainer.

“Not your witness anymore.” He snaps back just as coolly. Seeing it was more than time to engage with the hungry presses on the street, the attorney sidesteps a team of cops at the ready to tear him apart. He takes one last look in your direction as he descends down the steps. “You’ve got ‘em all hot and bothered for you, honey -- lemme know if you ever wanna be the one begging for a change.”

* * *

**GIANNI’S SPORTS PUB** **  
** **6318 WESTON ROAD** **  
** **MANHATTAN, NEW YORK** **  
** **TUESDAY, DECEMBER 13TH**

* * *

Carisi misses your call.

He’s tossing a pair of cuffs on the dominatrix Rollins had _finally_ busted on a couple charges of child pornography in Long Island when you make the attempt to reach him. He doesn’t feel the device go off at all. He’s in the passenger side of the black transport SUV when he finally checks the time and sees you’d left a voicemail, however still in the throes of the current investigation, he knows he’ll have to call you back a little later.

A little later is right around one in the morning, when the crescent moon peaks from the windows of Benson’s office. She’s loosely finishing up on a debriefing of today’s successful manhunt with a steaming mug of coffee in hand. When Carisi notices Mike was already on the phone on the sofa, he takes a moment to step aside and listen to the message you’d left for him too.

Wherever you are, it’s deafeningly loud. There’s upbeat Latin music drowning out your laughter at first, but then you come back to the receiver without preamble.

“ _Sonny_ \-- hey, it’s me. I’m at -- Viv, _stop_ \-- I’m at -- _Gianni’s_ ,” he frowns immediately, turning a little further away from the squad, “and I’m a _lil’_ drunk?”

There’s more hysterics from others somewhere behind you, and your giggle delights his ear.

“Come get me?” And then your line ends. 

So here Dominick stands, outside of this cursed bar close to closing time, on a mission to collect you and whatever of your friends need rescuing. Not that he wouldn’t mind getting a drink by this hour -- but not _here_. 

He hasn’t gone in just yet, surveying the old pavement and alleyways lit by sunset orange street lamps off the clock. He can see _Better Batter_ from here, and the corner where Hannah Gomez’s corpse was discovered by a mailman on his route at the crack of dawn. Something about the wind in the air felt like a sign they were close to the truth, but to what? The evidence here had seemed to run dry, and none of the other victims had any new leads attached to them to help find any peace.

He contemplates the details of Hannah’s murder as he steps inside.

Spotting you in a crowd was easy enough; or maybe he was just a little struck. Your hair was down and shimmering in neon bar lights, framing your pretty face as you take a sip the end of a dark purple cocktail. You chose a pair of faded jeans and a flattering black top, and you look exquisite -- but you don’t look very happy, and neither does your roommate, who stands just behind you with both of her hands gripped onto your shoulders. 

You both peer daggers at a stranger sitting beside you at the bar.

“ . . . have a lot of nerve, asshole.” Dominick hears Vivian spit when he’s in earshot. It’s just another couple strides before he’s present and all ears, scanning the features of this strange man still leaning a bit too close to his girlfriend for comfort. He’s in his thirties, handsome and suave, in a set of ripped biker pants and a Ralph Lauren jacket. He’s inebriated to the point where the two girls notice the detective come between them, but he does not.

“Don’t be shy now, little girl, you can join in too.” He laughs, hand extending as if to rub the curve of your knee. 

Sonny doesn't get a chance to do anything. You bat it away, all knuckles and nails, and Carisi knows if Vivian hadn’t wrapped her wrists around the swell of your bicep when you reel back, you would have swung cleanly. Later he would admire that fire -- would see it in the flashes of your day together, when you’d debated on the stand with the conceited attorney or in this moment, when he’d stumbled on a well taken care of fight. But now he chases his own exhaustion, cleaning up the problem before it begins.

“Is there a problem here?” Carisi flashes his badge from the inseam of his coat. Sometimes it was that easy.

The bartender behind the counter spots the glossy golden NYPD shield and goes back to minding his business. The stranger scowls and uses his stinging hand to snatch his half empty drink, spinning in the bar chair to make his exit. He mutters something dark about “bitches” and “scum” on his way, and the detective keeps his eyes on him long after you’d sprung from your chair and snuggled your body beneath the buttons of his coat.

“Doll,” he starts, looking down at the top of your head. You’d pressed your face to his vest, happy to breathe in the strong and expensive way he smells, “what are you doing here?” 

“Matt ‘n Javiar invited us -- there ousside.” You say into the fabric. All your energy had gone into fending off the bar crawler; you’d thought something had fallen onto your thigh in the hazy drunken fog, but Vivian had noticed what he’d done before you had, and shoved him away moments before Carisi had come through the doors. 

At this point you feel like succumbing to sleep, knees knocking together as you squeeze tighter around your favorite detective.

“We’ve been barhopping since three.” Vivian admits openly to him, popping back up into her seat at the bar. Dominick is surprised to find her far less under the weather than you, and watches her order another cocktail from the bartender who lingers around long enough to watch Carisi and his girl depart. “She’s pretty bummed about today. Go easy on her.” 

He nods, hooking an arm around your center to keep you even more upright.

“Are you not coming?” Dominick raises a brow. You no longer trust your vision, shutting your eyes together all the way. You know he’d lead the way, and are _just_ at the cusp of not feeling guilty about it.

“No way, and miss final call?” She chuckles, turning to bat her long lashes flirtatiously at the man stirring her drink. “I’ll get a ride from the boys. Go get some sleep.”

Dominick is more than happy to leave this place, kissing your forehead once before escorting you to the wooden front door. You fall asleep as soon as your head hits the glass window in his car, curled up with all your body parts fitting into his passenger seat. You smell like light perfume and tequila, which he finds equal parts adorable and a bit sad too; he’d expected you to be upset about messing up at the trial, but not like this.

He makes one call on his way back to his apartment, to Fin, who he knows would still be up at this hour. He asks about looking into _Gianni’s_ report history one last time, trusting an instinct about the bar that _shrieks_ of danger. If only he could put his finger on it.

Within the hour, Carisi had easily deposited you on his plush duvet, taking a moment to put his weapon and shield in the safe and use the restroom. By the time he had returned, starting at the tie and buttons around his neck, you’d already shed the majority of your clothes and crawled underneath his sheets, hair sprawled across his pillows.

Even absolutely hammered, you were heavenly and soft. He’s starting to wonder if the constant jump of his heart in your presence would ever stop, and as he’s shedding his cufflinks and shirt, he decides he never wants it to. 

He likes that you trusted him enough to call him from the bar, making a smart choice to call for search and rescue instead of finding some other means of travel. He’s not thrilled that you’d spent a day numbing your sorrows, and he’s even less happy with the choice to go to _Gianni’s_ of all places, but that was a discussion for the morning. He’s ready to crash himself; the events of a cursed Monday leaving new knots along his shoulder blades.

After double checking the windows and locks, and making you drink some water, he crawls beneath the sheets beside you. He chuckles out loud to himself when you greedily respond to the movement, rolling in time to tuck beneath his chin, cuddling all that you can into his chest for warmth and comfort. 

You both sink into the depths together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ive spent this entire fic so far trying to throw you off the trail of the killer. its someone we've already met. do you think you know who it is?
> 
> i packed a lot into this chapter but you know? you earned it. as a treat. especially since the next chapter finally just shifts the whole story for good ......
> 
> until next time !!  
> bagels <3


	9. Sweet & Savory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's an unexpected visitor at your apartment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi i really can't say much w/o spoiling it so just kno there's SMUTS FLUFF and GORE in this one. i also updated the tags so i'd take a peek at those if u need before we start this is a no judgement zone
> 
> his also every chapter i seem to write more than the last so sorry on the length she ( me ) just has a lot to say ok

* * *

**APARTMENT OF DOMINICK CARISI JR.  
** **40300 PATRICIA STREET APT #402  
** **MANHATTAN, NEW YORK  
** **TUESDAY, DECEMBER 13TH**

* * *

Not all of your senses come back at the same time.

A gradual process. You feel something wring your toes, radiating warmth through crisp blankets and fuzzy socks still on from the night before. It rouses you from an Eve of dreamless slumbering; instantaneously, like you had closed your lashes in one breath and sprung them open again with the next. Next comes the _smell_ \-- Italian dark roast was brewing and body wash from the bathroom hovers in the air. 

Carisi was squeezing your toes fresh from the shower, and when you peer out from beneath a pile of pillows claimed as yours in his absence, he’s got a pair of black sweats on and nothing else. Your previously dry mouth fills with saliva, watching dewy beads of water slip down his triceps; hair slicked and drying. He’s shaved his stubble before sunrise, sharp edges of his jaw damp. How did you get so lucky?

Sonny simpers when you finally wake, taking a careful and pointed seat next to your ankles.

“Morning . . . sorry to wake ya’, but I gotta take you home soon. Feelin’ alright there, champ?” He’s cheeky and poking fun at your inebriated day out. You take a second to answer him simply because you’re unsure, stocking up the usual hangover warning signs: a dull headache pulses between your eyebrows. But when you shuffle and sit up, collecting as much of the comforter in your arms as you do, you're pleased to find your stomach doesn’t summersault down to your crotch. 

“Okay, I think.” You wince, voice mildly sore from a couple rounds of karaoke at _Flannigan’s_. You vaguely remember “Sweet Caroline”, or was it something else? Either way, it had earned you a few free shots and a few posts on Instagram that you’d struggle to untag yourself from in an hour. “I’m . . . sorry I got so drunk. One thing led to another . . .”

“Vivian said you felt upset about what happened yesterday.” He tilts his head, watching you wiggle around at the truth. He’s smiling still, but it’s different -- like he’s looking at something too precious to handle. “Things we can’t control happen in court _all_ the time. We still have a long road ahead of us when it comes to this dickbag. It’s not over.”

“I know that.” Taking the duvet along for the journey, you crawl behind him, squishing your legs along the brawn of his hips, chest to back. He lets you daintily tuck the longer parts around his legs, but they’re just so long, you only get about half of it on him. Carisi’s body heat tempers every frozen bone in leu of your near nakedness -- in last night’s fog, you’d stripped down to just undergarments. “I knew I wasn’t supposed to say anything about us, but it just . . . came out. I’m so used to me and you already that when Moore started yelling again, I forgot.”

“Oh, darlin’.” He laughs and grabs one of your tingling hands, bringing each knuckle to his lips. It tickles as he pecks them, rolling around each finger like a massage. You find paradise here, letting your thrumming temple find Dominick’s spine. “No one blames you -- and you won’t ever hav’ta see him again either; _or_ Trainer. Unfortunately I’ve gotta ‘nother few days of stomaching garbage.”

Giggles spout from you, and you squirm against him once.

“He _was_ a scumbag.” Carisi’s face the first time you’d seen the defense attorney in the court lobby had been incredibly unamused. You ponder what topic they could have argued about so soon in the trial when it clearly hadn’t been about you. You wouldn’t say Carisi was hot headed, but you’d seen the switch flicker irritation into his steel complexion on the dime. It must have been something unfavorable.

“Told ya’.” He swats the knee you have hooked around the meat of his thigh once. “We can talk more about this over some food, but first: go shower. You’ll feel a helluva lot better.” 

And he’s right of course, giving you the best advice _ever_ . The stream relieves soreness lighting up the muscles of your back from being hungover and _weary_. You tuck all of your hair away and rub the knots in silence, letting the soap and water wash away trauma. You can almost watch it swirl down the drain. 

Dominick’s confirmations had settled a quarrel inside you, a nagging disappointment, but a different fear had _lingered_. 

Half of your goal to blackout had been just to rest, since your trusty gut had said after witnessing the mutilated corpses of women in bold flashes, you wouldn’t fall asleep. Not that you plan on mentioning it to Sonny. Some things were better dealt with alone, and in your boyfriend’s shower at 7 in the morning, you try to find some peace with what happened. You even pray, to whoever is listening, for the girls who were killed. You’re sure their justice will come soon.

When you notice you’ve been huddled beneath the steam for too long, you spring out feeling like a new you. You don’t have any makeup tools on hand to clean up the smudged mascara from the nightlife, so you don’t take very long smoothing back your hair and wiping away anything that looks out of place. He’s not in the room when you pad across the floorboards, hushed and mouse-like, and you almost put on your clothing from yesterday when a navy blue shirt hanging from a hook catches your eye -- long sleeves, white buttons.

Snatching it instead without hesitation, you parade to yourself, letting the towel fall to the floor in ceremony. Your favorite detective had taken very good care of you in the last 24 hours, and you thought perhaps he would like a treat in return.

Buttoning it up to the top of your breasts and fixing the collar, you feel charged up by your boldness in skipping panties. He’s much broader in the chest than you and exceeds your height, so the article is a bit too big and falls midthigh. Rolling the sleeves to the points of your elbows, all the damp locks of your hair are pulled to one side, and you sidle out the door.

Dominick’s in the kitchen.

Sipping from a maroon mug, you find him in a bit of a hunch over today’s paper, neatly unfolded and spread across the dining room table. He’s still opted out of putting on a shirt which singsongs to the siren already bleating out beneath your ribcage. Upon hearing your feet patter across the flooring, he picks his eyes up from a headline and -- _nearly_ dies on the spot, attention intently falling to bare, moist legs; to _his_ shirt, your coy lips. It’s like Christmas came early.

He sits upright in the wood chair, arms crossing over his chest.

“You can’t keep stealin’ all my clothes.” Sonny jests. “What will I wear?”

“Nothing.” Your boldness is exciting to the both of you when you trot to his side. He can’t resist, feather-like fingertips _soft_ at your calf and trailing up smooth, shower scorched skin. You disarm at first contact, letting one hand run over his scalp with praise. He knew how to touch you the ways you like, and you’ll spend the rest of forever letting him if he wants. “And _I_ won’t wear anything either. It’ll be perfect.”

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep.” You’ve bent at the hips, both palms to your knees to reach his eyes, and he’s thanking the saints for giving him you. Here you can see his pupils darken. It dawns on you now that you were _really_ about to enjoy whatever game you’d started. After all, you’d stalked out of his room nearly naked and claiming his things. It was clear what you wanted.

“I promise,” you sweet talk the shell of his ear, sinking one leg over both of his to straddle a magnificent pair of hips, “that whenever you want me to, I won’t wear any clothes. Just for you.”

“Better get used to being naked.” His hands seize the crease of your thighs, all ten fingers tight on the flesh, separating you from _actually_ settling down on his lap. You're a little curious as to why until the chair scuffs, and you’re tipped swiftly. A squeal threatens to burst out as your back hits the table. The coffee cup beside your head jiggles, steam still wafting from the center. “Except for right now. You keep that on.”

“Sonny . . . _okay_.” You start flushing, all cherry red and tempting, little laughter spells bubbling out as he drags your naked hips to the edge of the table. You’d been like this before at your own apartment, but you’d stolen him to the confines of your bedroom. In this moment, you knew there was no escaping his rapt dedication, especially as the detective blows your mind and takes his seat again. “Dominick, what are you --”

“Shh . . .” He grins, narrowed eyes, fingers pinching your thighs again. He’s as bossy as ever while kneading the inseam of your knee and thigh, one thumb adventuring to your pubic mound. You writhe under the soft padding _so_ close to home base but not _exactly_ on target, opening your mouth to say something smart until he cuts you off: “No talking.”

“But --” Whatever you were going to say is irrelevant anyways, replaced by staccato gasps for air. You hadn’t even had the chance to kiss him good morning, and now he’s got his head between your legs, kissing _you_ good morning instead. He licks softly at your clit, considering your chaotic descent into madness underneath him as a motion to continue. Every kiss and suckle at the throbbing nerves strung across your pussy lights little star systems behind your eyelids, and you tug your fingers in his hair. He’d have to do it again before you depart.

You just got clean, but now you feel so _dirty_ and spread out, letting him take his time. You're more than sure he has somewhere else to be soon, but the way he rolls his tongue through you, it’s like he could sit here doing this one sinful act all day. The thought alone makes your legs tremble, ankles trying to find purchase against anything -- his steady arms, his shoulders. Your toes curl when he gently sneaks finger at your folds. Every second is pure pleasure.

You purr his name, back arched against wrinkling newspapers. A thin drop of sweat stings your eyes but nothing could bother you; white hot bliss simmers at your middle for minutes, challenging your limbs to not twitch and shake. He’s relentless for you, tongue on an exploration, even when you can’t control the way your quaking thighs trap his head at the ears. 

“ -- don’t stop, _p-please_ \--”

“Didn’t I tell you to quit talkin’?” You groan and gaze in a daze as he does the exact opposite of what you’ve begged.

“What are you gonna do,” it comes out breathless, but you wouldn’t go down without a trist, “make me?”

“Sweetheart,” it’s a dark, deep laugh in his chest, the chair scooching back once again as he towers over your trembling body. His talented fingers dance the seam of your soaking core, hips lifting to meet the flavor. It’s a shame he snatches the sensation away before you can chase it. Irritated, horny tears threaten to dampen your eyes, “I could just stop. Leave you like this.”

Your lips part to prattle off again, but his brows shoot up, and you hold your tongue. Praise is met by two fingers filling you with expertise, atmosphere around your head fuzzy. Nothing else exists but the way he knows you like this, how to stroke just right, to pause when you’re getting crazed too fast. Everything about you tightens for him when you’re close; soon after he’s gone back to eating you out, arms hooked around your thighs to keep you from strangling him -- your walls, limbs, eyes: all _fluttering_.

“ _Sonny_ , oh -- hell -- I’m _gonna_ \--”

He hums and stops again.

“-- _kill you._ ” You whine through your teeth, teetering on the edge of discomfort from crashing back down again. You sit up and pull him with you for a kiss unlike any other, like a war of tongues and teeth, desperate to keep stimulation. He dominates you there too, taking locks of your hair between his knuckles to keep you rooted in the perfect spot. Lack of oxygen wrecks you.

“I thought you were my good girl, but you’re feisty today, huh?” You preen in spite of his faux chastising, letting him talk dirty and mouth a path of wet, harsh kisses down your jaw. You press your chest at his hoping he’d get the hint to touch you, but he doesn’t. “And then last night. Had to scoop you up from that filthy bar. Did you think you were off the hook for that?”

“I’m sorry?” But it doesn’t sound like it, not with how you twist your head in his grip.

“It’s too bad we have to start getting ready to go.”

“You're not thinking about letting me suffer, are you?” You frown at him incredulously, toes cuffing his backside, trying to scooch him closer to the sexy entanglement. He’s looking at you like he could eat you skin and bones, low lashes and a sly grin that makes you realize that _yes_ , yes he would.

“Think of it as a little bit of penance, Doll.” One finger pokes the bud of your nose. You nearly exhale steam in frustration, legs rubbing together in front of him with no shame. “And tonight I get off the clock early so I’ll make it worth it.”

Blushing, you know you hadn’t made any previous plans for the evening. Hearing he’s interested in spending a night hunting bliss, you face defeat and clutch the sides of his face in your hands. Leaning in close to tempt him with hot, happy kisses, pride swells at the predatory groan catching in his throat.

“I’ll hold you to it, Detective.”

The trip back to your apartment through the city is quiet. He makes a few outgoing phone calls that are met by incoming ones as the precinct springs to life. The tension is lusty, fuming the car interior. Dominick never stops tracing tiny patterns into the curve of your thigh.

When you kiss him goodbye and take the staircase to your front door, the pleasant smile on your mouth never fades. After feeling so foul after the trial, he’d brightened your outlook completely. 

Turning the final corner, you can see your front door, the brass numbers and straw doormat -- but your feet scuff to a halt when a man shuts the door to your apartment and saunters in the other direction. He’s burly and so _tall_ \-- maybe even taller than Dominick. Bright blonde, jeans and a shirt, and _gone_ before you can retain anything else from this far of a perch. 

Rushing to the entrance, you bust through, greeted by the sound of an episode of _Master Chef_ on repeat and the microwave pinging. 

“Vivian . . .” you call out, shutting the door in your hustle, “did you have sex last night?”

“Uh,” Her head pops out from the entrance to the kitchen, a chunky and green avocado mask freshly applied on her face. “Hello? Nice to see the alcohol poisoning didn’t get you.”

“You didn’t answer my question.” Buttons pop and straps fall apart as you remove your shoes and discard your jacket, meeting her in the kitchen. At a first sweeping glance you spy an empty bottle of Merlot with two stained glasses and old food wrappers discarded carelessly across the holiday decorations. It’s enough of an answer in itself, and she squints through the facial.

“Maybe I did.” Teases your roommate. She slides in wool high socks across the tile to retrieve her breakfast from the microwave, pouring thick chunks of oatmeal into a porcelain bowl. Vivian stirs while you get the coffee pot operational. “I had a feeling you wouldn’t be home, so I took the opportunity. I’m guessing you saw him on the way in.” 

“By all means.” You laugh, scooping grounds into a filter. “What’s his name? Did you meet him at _Gianni’s_? I was with you for most of yesterday . . .”

“ _Actually_ ,” she sings with a mouthful of food, “yes. Don’t you remember? He’s --”

There’s three swift taps at the front door, and you and Vivian hold very still, waiting for the other to make the move. 

“ _Maybe_ he left something.” Chuckling, you speed by her faster than she can set down her breakfast. Her yowl of disbelief is deaf to your ears as you zoom through the hallway, intent on introducing yourself to Vivian’s stranger.

Twisting the lock and tossing open the frame, your hasty bounding stops short when a recognizable, smiling face greets you back.

“ _Mom_ _?_ ”

* * *

 **PRECINCT 16  
** **OFFICES OF THE SPECIAL VICTIMS UNIT  
** **MANHATTAN, NEW YORK  
** **TUESDAY, DECEMBER 13TH**

* * *

Dominick huffs and slides the last three spring rolls across the lunch table to Amanda. He’s stuffed to the brim with rice, noodles and veggies as is -- there was no chance if he ate anymore. Fin is still slurping on his soup in between jotting down on a thick report stack across the room. The only other noise besides a humming vending machine is Dodds’ smartphone blaring ESPN highlights. The squad had chosen comfortable silence since the morning had been a flurry of court updates, new cases, and one familial dispute in the front lobby that had escalated into a man ending up in the holding cell and an officer with a bloody nose.

Carisi isn’t planning on being the first one to break the hush, but his phone vibrates in his back pocket, and he clears his throat before putting the speaker to his ear.

“Carisi, _SVU_.”

“Oh. Hi. I didn’t expect you to pick up so quickly.” He hadn’t glanced at the caller ID, so hearing your voice between aggravating phone calls lifts his spirits. There’s indistinguishable noise in the background -- like talking or maybe the television. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything important.”

“No, we’re on lunch.” He looks at his teammates -- Rollins is happily halfway through indulging in his extra Chinese, rubbing her growing pregnant belly absentmindedly. Tutuola looks ready to take a nap in his chair, pushing the bowl far, far away before opening a new document. And Dodds just glares him back down, unsettled by the environment being interrupted by Sonny’s loud mouth. 

Slouching further in the plastic chair, Dominick tucks the phone between his ear and shoulder. 

“What’s up?”

“My mother showed up at my apartment this morning.” You sound mildly stressed out from his side of the receiver, holding a pause. “We’re going into the city for a few hours, but she had mentioned grabbing dinner in upper Manhattan before she heads back to Buffalo if you would like to join us.”

There’s a slapping sound and mild murmurs and then you sigh through your nose.

“She would like for me to inform you that she insists on you joining us.”

Sonny chuckles. 

“Sure. Gimme an address and time and I can meet you there.” Charming mothers took practice and a certain wit he’s happy to be equipped with. He wonders if he should feel more anxious meeting one of your parents for the first time, but if your family was anything at all like you, he’s sure he’s going to have a great evening just being himself. 

“Hold on one second,” There’s static and shuffling on your side of the line, and he flicks a tiny rice clump from his coat, spotting it fly wide and _thunk_ against Amanda’s elbow. She frowns and picks at the grains, tossing them back. When you return to Dominick’s ear, there’s the sound of a doorframe shutting, “okay, sorry, excused myself. I know we had -- uhm -- _other arrangements_ for the night but I sort of called her around 10 last night crying, so she’s here ‘monitoring my mental health’.”

“Don’t worry, Dollface.” Mike rolls his eyes from across the lunchroom at the pet name, grumbling to himself. Carisi ignores it. “We’ll grab dinner with your mama, and after _that_ , I’ll still take good --”

“ -- you better think about what you plan on saying next wisely, hotshot; not tryin' to be a part of your sex life.” Tutuola says it without looking at him, focused on his work yet so pointedly listening, and Rollins laughs, taking the last bite on her plate.

“Anyway,” He picks a different route, taking it as his sign to start walking, “you sound nervous. Should _I_ be?”

“No. It’s my stepdad you’ll have to get your panties in a knot over.”

“Hmm, speaking of . . . ” He trails off, index finger discreetly turning down the volume of the receiver. With the other hand, he tosses his emptied containers in the trash and makes his way through the office space of the Special Victims Unit at leisure. He catches Barba hopping on an elevator as he turns the corner, rapidly saying something in Spanish to an officer riding the cart with him. 

Benson had taken an early day already herself, for a personal endeavor he wishes he’d inquired about.

“. . . I have something I want you to do tonight.”

“Anything.” You reply breathlessly, an idea of where his mind is going. All he’d have to do is ask.

“Don’t wear any underwear for me.” The request is low and lewd while pulling back the chair to his desk and plopping down into it. He’s glad there’s no one around to hear him say it; the precinct strangely hushed on a Tuesday afternoon. He knows now not to speak of it out loud -- like a jinx, mentioning a slow day would ensure the rush. Stretching out and getting comfy, Sonny imagines the look on your face at taking direction. Making you red and squirmy was becoming his favorite pastime -- and it was easy, growing more and more obsessed with how much you adore him. With the way you seem so confident, yet your body betrays you and screams of innocence as soon as he gets his touch on your skin.

It forces a sly grin to his face.

“Done.” You agree. It’s a date then.

“See? Knew you were my good girl.”

* * *

 **TASTE OF GENOA  
** **83300 PARKWAY DRIVE S  
** **MANHATTAN, NEW YORK  
** **TUESDAY, DECEMBER 13TH**

* * *

Ultimately you’re glad your mother came.

The day of the trial was like an inkstain on a perfect few weeks. Even with the investigation clouding day to day life, you’d spent the holidays making forever memories, surrounded by your closest friends. You’d executed some excellent salesmanship at the restaurant, _and_ you were finally starting to understand that you’d have to be careful, or you’d fall in love with Detective Carisi.

He’s got a hand under his chin at the high top, listening to Diana talk about her career in fashion. You’d already heard the tale of 1992’s New York Fashion Week fiasco a hundred other times, so you take a moment to study the finer details of your boyfriend; the handsome edges of his face, the rough accent that makes your tummy flutter every time he speaks. His blue eyes are always full of light, watching the two women entertain at an upscale restaurant. 

You reach out to run on hand along the side of his scalp. You weren’t normally so brazen with open displays of affection, but you and your mother were already on your second round when Dominick had arrived. You feel relaxed for the first time all day with such important company and Stolichnaya.

“ . . . but enough about fashion.” Diana sticks a fork into her appetizer, twirling bits of fried cheese in a thick red sauce. “My daughter has mentioned in the past you’re a cop. Oo, perhaps badges are our _thing_ , darling.”

“ _Mom_.” A blush befalls the apples of your cheekbones and travels to your nape, exposing the embarrassment. Your glad Carisi just guffaws.

“What?” Your mother never beat around the bush, feigning a sinless expression in spite of your scowl. “I assume she’s mentioned her stepfather is ex-NYPD.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Dominick tucks a bar napkin underneath his sweating bourbon, still upturned from laughter. “Means she’s built tough like the resta’ us, right?”

“Oh, yes, she’s always been a fighter.” The conversation has shifted from model drama to you somehow, keeping the flush high on your ears and neck. Taking it as a good enough sign to take another sip of your martini, she continues on and ignores your discomfort. “I recall one time in junior high -- you remember, right? -- a group of snotty little fuckers were picking on Mathew for liking boys. Had to get her stepfather to talk to the dean so she wouldn’t get suspended after knocking them around all on her own.”

“That sounds about right.” You have to refrain from startling when a warm palm settles on the exposed flesh of your leg. If you had made a movement perhaps the eagle scrutiny of your mother’s gaze would have noticed, but you hold composure. A day’s worth of daydreaming has prepared you for anything.

“In my defense,” you focus on _focusing_ as he nips the tender flesh before taking the feeling away. Breathing comes natural again, “he also said I looked like a mule. It served him right to get beat up by a girl.” 

Conversation flows like a melody as the three of you dine and discuss. You remember why you’re glad your mother had come -- though you're sure you’d get an earful _tomorrow_ , tonight she looks impressed and favorable of Dominick. Her presence feels like safety and home, after such a long time without having her around. It’s a blessing, so you don’t plan on wasting it before her departure.

When the plates are cleared and a crème brulee broils beneath a torch in the kitchen, your mother relieves herself for the washroom, abandoning you to Sonny’s hungry look. When she’s out of eyesight, you giggle as he grabs your head, placing playful kisses on your cheek and temple.

“Beautiful.” Said like a fact, he lets you go to grab his drink for a sip. You feel frazzled in a fantastic way, tucking all the tendrils of your hair to one side. He sees the hollow of your collar, and has an urge to sink his teeth on the unmarred skin. “Honestly thought you’d get all that sass from your stepdad, but it’s obvious where it really comes from, huh?”

“Not out of the woods yet; I believe it just runs in the family.” Imagining Dominick in the mix with the rest of your relatives seems equally enthralling as it is terrifying. Maybe it was the drinks, or the murky scent of your boyfriend, but you’re back to considering if you’d ever been in love before. And if you had, did it ever feel like this? Everything with Sonny felt like a new experience; like it was just the two of you, and everything else around was just white noise.

Under the table, you forage at his ankle and run the point of your heel along the meaty calf. His Adam’s apple swallows thickly and you go higher, daring not to ruin the spell cast. Your mother would only be gone for a minute longer, but dinner was wrapping up and you and Dominick had an agreement. 

“I did something you asked me to do today.” The words tumble out while you carefully grab the drink from his palm, setting it off to the side. His head tilts to appreciate your outfit, because you’re entrancing -- a deep red cocktail dress you’d bought today, form fit and strapless. The heel you trap behind his kneecap is black and tall. He knows now you’d listened and gone commando. If he wasn’t out to dinner with your mother, he’d see how _brave_ you really were. “What are you going to do in return?”

“Baby, you got no idea.” You want to hear what he’s planned — all the dirty, sticky details, but your mother struts back into frame, buttoning the white blaser back to her sternum. You force your mind to think of anything else, like breeds of cats and the different vintages of wine this rustic Italian joint has displayed as decoration, but the memory of Sonny’s head between your thighs zings back in. The way the man besides you shifts from side to side, you guess he’s doing the same thing.

When evening turns into night, the bill is settled and the three of you hit the pavement. Your outfit didn’t call for cold weather and the temperature was dropping by the half hour, so goodbyes are shorter than you’d like. Your mother holds you so roughly you feel actual pain, ribs crushing through your overcoat. Her hands pet your locks, before she pulls back to frame a hand on your face.

“Darling, come home for Christmas.” Pleading, your heart sinks. You hadn’t requested the time off and with Vivian’s mother still deployed, you were sure you’d be city-bound on the 25th. “Or let us come to you.”

“We’ll see, Ma.” You clutch her hand on your face softly, falling into the tender gesture. “Drive back to Buffalo safely, okay? No speeding.”

“I didn’t get this expensive vehicle for nothing so I make no promises!” Jingling the keys to her sports car, the two of you part so she can regard Sonny properly. You find a slice of joy in the way he hugs her too, just as tight as she held you. Sparks shatter in your chest at the sight. “You take care of my daughter, Detective, or any academy training you’ve ever had will look like recess.”

“I don’t doubt it.” You latch back onto his side as the pair of you wish farewells and wave her off. You’re glad he’s parked in a separate direction, able to hear the purr of her engine as she zooms into the night. He gentlemanly opens the door for you, then stalks around to get in himself. 

You make a choice as soon as his lanky body plumps down in the driver’s. 

“Sonny . . . ” He turns and you careen the gear shift and console, hands itching to tangle in any part of him you can clutch to. He doesn’t move other than wetting his bottom lip tentatively, blonde eyebrows high. “Kiss me?”

 _Finally_ he met you halfway, wilting at the bashful, polite way you ask for it. It’s open mouthed and _sexy_ , pent up from a day’s worth of foreplay and so, _so_ good. The brawny palm of his hand hits bare skin again, riding up the hem of your dress to your hips in his front seat. You groan into the fine line of his teeth. Frosty, winter air hits the parts of you more exposed now than the rest of the evening, so you clasp his tie like a lifeline and roll the material on your fist, round and round. 

You’ve never had sex in a car — let alone a cop car for God’s sake — but when his mouth ventures down your jaw to the nodes of your neck, huffing hotly through his nose, you’re pretty sure you’d let him fuck you in the backseat. Teeth knead the flesh while the hand on your leg dips between the last sliver of material hiding you away. Your pussy is wet and you shake when his fingers spread and lauve sensitive folds.

He feels you up long enough that your breath hitches into panting, but he doesn’t sink home even when begging morphs into wordless, angelic mewls. Unhinging his teeth from the ovular, claiming bites on your shoulder line, Sonny gets close enough you can count the dark speckles in blue pupils. You gasp against his lips, chasing it.

“Wanna go home?” Words fail, so you nod. Giving you one final peck, Sonny starts the ignition and turns back forward to drive. 

Every few stoplights you quip over the evening, including one interesting debate over one of his most interesting childhood interests. You finally get your bearings back by the time the halfway mark hits and you lose them all again when your complex rolls into view through a glass pane blanketed in drifting snow. 

Collecting yourself and things, you unlock the front door -- relieved to see your roommate was either still at work or otherwise preoccupied. Thoughts of her morning male suitor fly away when you shut the door and lock it behind you. 

Dominick’s grip beelines to the bones in your hips, nuzzling the crook of your neck from behind. You try to walk the hallway past the kitchen and you nearly stumble against the sofa when he’s had enough trying to escape in the living room. 

“Stay there.” He’s got you trapped at the armrest, pelvic bone curving along the edge of the couch. You do as he asks, hearing the sound of his coat buttons snapping open; the _thunk_ it makes as he tosses it onto the loveseat. He removes yours too, cascading it in the same direction, then finds the zipper to your dress. The material slips apart, like he was savoring every fresh inch of skin he gets from the pull.

When you’re naked save for the heels you fight to stay upright in, both of his arms sneak around you to hold you against his chest, breathing in the sweet scent of your hair. The line of your bare back struggles against the scratchy, full outfit he still wears -- but it’s _hotter_ this way, exposed and caged, just for him. 

The game continues for an hour, at least. You’re manhandled and strung across the couch cushions, melting every limb, making every unabashed noise while he eats you out. Dominick had meant business too, holding up on his end of the bargain, letting you come on the couch with his 5’oclock shadow heightening every brush of his lips. His intention short circuits your brain.

When he’s finally satisfied and you can’t stop shaking, he licks a line up your navel to the valley of your breasts. Sweet nothings mumble across the goosebumps that rise to the occasion. However, when goes to sprawl his body on top of yours, you meekly shove at his chest.

You sit him back. He doesn’t say a word in rebuttal as you crawl across the sofa and back on his lap for the second time today. He’s hard and grunts when you straddle him, feeling your pulsing _heat_ , so naked and balling the untucked shirt on his chest in your hands. When it springs free from the belt, you go for that too, handling leather before dropping it to the floor. 

Your trembling makes it harder to stay on course — fumbling hands and wet kisses that fall apart when you reach through his pants and boxers to squeeze impressive flesh. Dominick’s head tilts back at the feeling of your dainty fingers rub along sensitive skin, skull meeting the back of the couch with relief. It was your turn now, nose hovering down the pulsing point of his jugular.

Sex with Sonny was incomparable. 

When you skip foreplay and sink down, clutching both of his shoulders on the descent, you find the power feels tantalizing and new. He whispers something filthy to you, broken sentences that make no sense, hands wrapping around each hip to keep you pinned on his cock. It’s highly overstimulating when you try to move, but still, he doesn’t let you up. You can feel how full you are, wet and trembling. You figure he can too.

“Dominick, _please_ don’t make me wait . . .” 

The tone of your voice is disintegrating, nothing making sense except your fullness, the sweat clinging on the back of your knees, the bite he delivers on your bottom lip. He finally takes pity, big hands releasing you and trailing up your ribcage and spine instead. You sigh with the first rise and fall of your hips with Sonny inside you, engraving the blown, incredulous expression that befalls his flushing face in the back of your head. 

Much after your libidos are run exhausted in an entanglement of body parts, slick and sweaty skin, you’ve pulled yourself in a little ball against his chest. The pink blanket from the loveseat keeps you warm while his index finger paints a picture on your back of something you can’t quite place. He can feel your heart skipping time as you gaze up at his chin.

“Stay the night?” It’s so quiet, you almost don’t hear yourself say it. But he does, and exhales once.

“I want to but I gotta go home.” Sonny kisses you once, right on the frown. It was for the best, you suppose. You’d picked up a shift at _Better Batter_ yourself; since you weren’t needed in the trial, you’d be back to slinging croissants and coffee at sunrise. Still, you wanted him around all the time now, addicted to his appearances in your everyday life. “I’m on an early shift in the morning. Need new clothes, even more so since I lost a button.” 

You giggle, surveying the ground for anything shiny and round. He watches you do it; there’s serenity in your demeanor, and when you meet his eyes again, they shine in the dim lights of your living room. You’ve only known each other for a month and some change, but he feels like you’ve been around for years. If he had any say to it, you would be.

When you start to sync in and out of sleep in his lap, he kisses you one last time -- softly, _carefully_ , like you might shatter if he moves too fast. He’d spent the entire day stealing the oxygen from your chest. Now that he has to go, it doesn’t seem like enough time. 

You cling to his collar, making the appreciative kisses last.

It’s near 2 when he does depart, leaving you all alone. You send a text to your roommate as you tidy up the living room, massacred by fumbling and rolling in the passion. You consider waiting up for her return to spill your day, but when your eyelids droop over the late night comedy show on the TV, try as you might, the evening’s events finally force you into succumbing. 

By 2:15, you’re asleep in the grooves of the couch.

* * *

 **BETTER BATTER DINER & BAKERY  
** **6344 LINEBAUGH AVENUE  
** **MANHATTAN, NEW YORK  
** **WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 14TH**

* * *

Rollins and Carisi are stuck in traffic on the 275, going back and forth on the details of one of their newest case -- a dead and wealthy mistress with a husband who had found her body and shed no tears; or maybe it the babysitter, who refused to speak any English despite statements of her knowing how. The two of them are both still in interrogation with Benson and Dodds at the precinct while he and Amanda follow up on her dominatrix case before convening at Foley Square. 

Carisi is comparing the stab wounds to their suspected murder weapon, finding a few minor discrepancies to start, but Amanda’s phone buzzes in her jacket pocket.

“. . . — that’s what I thought -- one sec — Rollins, _Special Victims._ ” Whoever is on the other line speaks curtly, and when the stop light flickers red, Oxford’s press on the brakes. Dominick glances at her just in time to see all the color in her normally lovely face drain on the spot. He can’t keep making guesses with the light changing, but he isn’t left curious for long. She hangs up after saying, “okay, we’re . . . we’re on the way.” 

“What’s the deal?” He’s concerned, signaling his blinker to merge. Amanda dials on the pin pad, trying to reach Tutuola who sits in for the Unit in court with Barba. 

“That was Dodds . . . we have to turn around. There’s been another attack.” She brings the phone back up to her ear, before turning in her seat a little to judge her partner. What she was about to tell him was terrible news, but there wasn’t any time to dick around and pretend it wasn’t happening. “Not this case -- the serial murders. They found the victim this morning outside of _Better Batter_ about 45 minutes ago, the same as the last three girls.”

The car jolts as his foot slips onto the left pedal, making a mom in a Sedan honk despite the police insignia.

“Do they know who it is, the victim?” Amanda’s surprised he seems relatively calmer than she initially expected after hearing his girlfriend could be in pieces.

“No. But. I’m sure it’s not --”

“I know it’s not.” He exhales air like he’d been holding onto it for too long. Taking an exit just to loop around in the opposite direction, both hands twist at the wheel until his knuckles are white. Rollins pretends not to notice, focusing more on the dial tone rattling against her ear instead.

In her tummy, the baby kicks. 

“‘Specially since she just text me a few minutes ago on ‘er way to work. We’re going to try to beat her there.”

As soon as they’re headed back in the right direction, he puts his driving skills to the test, flicking the lightbar on top of the vehicle to life. Vibrant red and blue reflects off streaking cars while the sirens bleat repeatedly in every direction. Amanda leaves a message for Fin over the sound of it.

There’s already two patrol cars blocking off the back entrance when they arrive in record time. Dominick parks in tandem, shielding more of the road from curious onlookers and one press bus already setting up equipment. The second he kills the engine, Carisi and Rollins zip up their NYPD jackets and hit the unmaintained pavement. 

Amanda feels around for her badge, tapping his elbow once and pointing in the direction of the reporters. He nods her off as she takes her first point of action. 

Dominick ducks the yellow, spreading CAUTION tape and side-steps a pile of loose brown boxes. The backside of Better Batter smells abysmal; like sewage, old cigarettes, garbage, and rotting flesh. One of the _worst_ parts of the job was getting used to the way human decomposition reeks. The only positive was the scent sometimes led to a body source.

He finds it after carefully stepping through yellow evidence blocks. There’s quite a few, unlike the last few scenes with the killer. The first responding medical examiner on scene is a young woman with round, shapely glasses and a rapid shutter speed. She’s hovering over the victim with half the sheet pulled back to respectfully conceal what she can and still take the needed pictures.

When Detective Carisi approaches, she squints when his height takes her sunlight. They’re in a back concrete corner near the exit, with scattered empty food containers in every direction. He tries to dodge it by crouching down to the examiner and the body, suppressing a look at the smell.

“I’m Detective Carisi — Special Victims Unit; the lady over there is my partner, Detective Rollins.”

“Wow. You guys move _fast_. Well -- I'm still doing an initial report for the record, but she’s an unidentified female, late twenties, early thirties maybe. Discovered this morning by a cook arriving on scene at about 6:15-ish.” She recovers the severed arm beneath the white sheet, before moving to the other side to do the same. “Both arms and legs dissected at the main joints, but look here --”

Carisi grimaces as she exposes more of the victim, white gloves pointing and trying to explain what he’s supposed to be looking at. One part of the job was the smell. Another part was cutting his emotions clean off, to _try_ to be unaffected by what he’s seeing. It wasn’t easy and every once in a while it was a struggle. Today was one of those days. 

“-- he left two to three inches in between each limb on the ground, meticulously placed. The rape kit is positive for fluids, but there’s no vaginal or anal tearing. I found traces of skin under her nails and he also removed her teeth.”

He’s never met this M.E. before, but he admires and is a little terrified of the way she does her work without a quiver in her tone. If he had to discover and pick apart the dead for a living, there wouldn’t be enough prayer to make him feel less haunted. Even now, as she pulls back the sheet and reveals Vivian’s expressionless face to show off her jaw, he can feel her ghost linger in the back of his head.

He doesn’t say a word as she continues on through her examination, never pausing to see if he has any questions anyways. He wasn’t sure where to start. Who? When? How? He didn’t even have a jumping point to launch from in the disbelief. 

“Got the buzzards to go; what do we know here?” Rollins’ voice echoes from behind, matched only by the sounds of city streets and murmuring pedestrians trying to get a better view. He looks over his shoulder and can see Benson and Dodds arriving with their badges out, waving off the crowd of people. He motions her closer but she declines by shaking her head, both hands fallen to rest on her swollen gut. It was times like this she felt more positive on desk duty. “I -- I’m sorry. I don’t think I could take the smell.”

“It’s Vivian Miller.” He turns back to the corpse, rubbing a hand across his mouth and standing. “She’s a waitress here . . . and my girlfriend’s roommate.”

The medical examiner’s head flies up, eyes large and analytical beneath her thick lenses. She’s even more careful as she removes more of the sheet, focusing on a surprisingly set of bruised ribs.

“I would have been a little more sensitive if I have known, I’m --”

“Don’t worry about it.” He attempts to smile politely, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. That last time he’d seen Vivian, she’d been at _Gianni’s_ , sticking around for the last drink of the night. If he had known . . .

“ -- you can’t cross the line, hun -- _hey!_ ”

Amanda and Dominick turn at the same time as a woman ducks an officer’s outstretched arm and the caution tape. When she stands in the pale sunlight and jogs across the deck before the patrol cop can seize her, he realizes it’s _you_. You're fast, but he’s got longer legs, only having to walk to meet you halfway to the curb. You try to duck him too, but his arm hooks your waist as you fly by, securing you against his chest.

“Doll, you _can’t_ \--”

“--tell me it’s not true.” Your nails are like sharpened claws trying to get his hands off of you, but there’s no way he can let you go any further. You should never have to see what he just witnessed. “What they _just_ said -- tell me it’s not _true_.”

“I’m sorry, I-I _can’t_.” You try to wrangle out of his compressing hold, but it’s a useless endeavor. He’s wrestled grown men twice your size to the floor. The medical examiner hadn’t finished her detailing and from this distance you can see thick tendrils of hair, the curve of a nose. It’s the face of your roommate, who you’d woken up to every day for the last year. It was one of your closest friends.

You stop writhing like you’d been tased. Seizing the moment to turn you away from the victim, he says your name once. When you don’t answer he says it again with growing concern, but it comes back muffled. Like crashing waves on a shoreline. Why can’t you smell? Have you been holding your breath?

You drop like a box of fine china. He’s glad he’s got you all tangled up or when you pass out, you would have hit harsh concrete. Benson, Rollins and Dodds pick up the pace and round on the two of you when his eyes search for help with a wilting body in his arms. It’s Olivia who grabs her walkie talkie first.

“This is Sergeant Olivia Benson with the Manhattan Precint: I need assistance at 6344 Linebough Avenue Southbound in east Manhattan. Police activity already on scene; we have an unresponsive female and need medical attention.” When the copy is received with a little _ring_ , she helps Carisi crouch and settle you between his knees. He keeps your head off the filthy ground when Dodds offers his overcoat, and Benson rests a caring hand on your unconscious calf. “What’s going on?”

“It’s her friend.” Amanda answers for him, checking a notification off of her cellphone screen. Olivia can’t extinguish the surprise on her face. “Also just got an update from Barba. They’re halting Moore’s trial as we speak.” 

Even though you're lost far in the depths of your own mind, Dominick uses his fingers to softly cover your ears. He’s sure you’d find out the truth soon, but now, he’d let your subconscious rest.

“It’s the same as the others.” He says quietly, looking back to the medical examiner who dusts off her hands and goes to get a new pair of gloves. “The unpaid intern lookin’ one over there said she tested positive for fluids and skin under her nails, but there was no vaginal trauma or scarring like the other three women. Was also found with her teeth removed.” 

“Her teeth? For what? And the kit -- our guy didn't rape her?” Dodds has to be blunt, regardless of how two of the three detectives in front of him wince. 

“It could be a few things.” Dominick sighs. The lights of an ambulance reflect off of windows up the block.

Benson finishes for him.

“Hopefully for our victim, it could mean she knew her killer.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok vivian if you're reading this im so sorry honey u deserved better wednesdays are just cursed in this fic ok i gotta say it.
> 
> next time we just kinda pop the lid off of the "PLOT" can!! i was sick ( again fml ) the last week so i was able to crank another one of these out. im back at work now but since we're getting into the juicy details of this bad boi expect to see a new chapter again soon!!!
> 
> love u don't h8 me  
> bagels <3


	10. Espresso & Cordials

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mourning makes time speed up and slow down.
> 
> or, Olivia and Amanda ask you some questions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter was gonna be even longer but i decided to chop it in half for the sake of my sanity!!!

* * *

**PRECINCT 16  
** **OFFICES OF THE SPECIAL VICTIMS UNIT  
** **MANHATTAN, NEW YORK  
** **WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 14TH**

* * *

You’ve been sitting here alone for about an hour now, but the time has given you a lot to think about, at least. 

The sun is past the midday peak in a fiery descent through the windows of the precinct. Rays of light illuminate the specs hovering in the stale air in front of your eyes. The tears had finally ceased from freely spilling down your salty, sticky cheeks, leaving your vision raw and hyper focused on the finer details of the room around you in the absence of company. Every volume title on the shelves has been read twice, every wooden bar in the chairs counted over, so now you study the dustmites -- anything to not think about Vivian, even if just for a second.

You had heard the ocean when you’d gone unconscious and you swam back up for air when an EMT resuscitated you with a cracked smelling salt and an unnecessary portable oxygen line. The Special Victims Unit still had a job to do regardless of the fact that your mind felt like soggy cotton balls and you hadn’t spoken a word since you’d woken back up, so an escort officer had sat by your side in a large, black undercover Escalade until they could finish the forensic investigation of your departed friend.

Lounging here now, you don’t remember getting to the police station. 

You think you’d fallen asleep tucked away on the leather row the backseat makes and you recall the jolt the car had made once over the bridge back. But when you’d opened your eyes again, Dominick conscientiously stirs you from where he stands outside of the car in the bleating city streets, and you knew the hard part had only just begun. He’d led you back to the same room with mahogany toned furniture and yellow wallpaper that you’d occupied when he rolled gauze pads over your wounded flesh, promising to come back as soon as he could. 

The sound of the heavy door _clink_ -ing shut behind him had shattered the last defense you’d paved after resurrection, subdued tears breaking along the dam. You were glad no one was around to see it as you’d deeply mourned your friend.

The lump in your throat threatens to quake again just thinking about it, but the door finally springs back open wide, blinds swaying at the urgency behind the thrust. You clear your throat and slug the sleeves of your jacket across damp cheeks when Sargeant Benson and Detective Rollins bramble in with notepads and folders in their hands. No Sonny.

“I’m sorry to keep you waiting here for so long.” There’s a genuine sympathy in how Olivia speaks to you, pulling back the chairs for her and Amanda to sit down across from you. You’re not sure what to say, because “it’s okay” was far from the truth with one of your closest friends dead, but you understand more than most the lengthy process of law and order. Anything was acceptable now, for Vivian’s sake. “How are you feeling? Can we get you anything before we start talking? A cup of coffee, maybe?”

You shake your head once, locks of hair bouncing from the impromptu bun you’d tossed it into when the government issued heaters broke a sweat under your jacket. You can’t seem to find your voice even now, chest weighted with inescapable pressure. Had you not cried enough yet? Were you holding your breath again?

“I can’t imagine how hard this is for you,” Rollins rocks forward and folds both her dainty hands together on the tabletop. It doesn’t take being a detective to see you’re clearly struggling through it. She’s glad Benson sent Carisi back to Linebaugh to canvas for eyewitness testimonies and get a fresh round of security tapes while they start questioning; it would be hard enough to watch you bristling without him looming the two way window, “and I’m _sorry_.”

You look at her in fresh light. She’d poised off a cautious and a cool exterior most of the times you’d been with her, so you find you like the way she’s changed here -- like talking to a close friend. It thaws your exterior before their eyes without your notice.

“Was it . . .” You can’t say Moore, because you’ve already considered the near impossibility of him slipping through police custody and court of law to commit such a violent act and go unnoticed. “. . . the same person? The same man who killed Hannah?”

“We won’t know for sure until the DNA comes back from labs, but . . . the details are the same.” Your heart sinks and the pulse there accelerates tenfold at Benson’s truth. The last shred of hope you had for your roommate’s peaceful passing was gone. Lashes meet your cheeks as you try to digest the news, stuck on the mental image of the last time you’d seen Vivian. “I know this is a difficult time for you, but if it’s alright, we have some questions that could help us move us on the right path with the investigation.”

“Okay.” You blink open your eyes to meet hers. “What do you want to know?”

“When was the last time you talked to her?” She flips open her notepad, all the pages rippling together, and you think of the last thing you’d said to her -- your mother had invited her to come escapading in the Manhattan, but she’d politely declined and wished you farewell as the two of you bundled by the front door. You remember the sly expression that lingered when you’d squinted her way from the hall, the way she had just begun to paint her nails; you’d assumed she had plans. 

Her one night stand.

Your guts lurch.

“It was yesterday morning.” A shaky exhale later and you can continue. “We . . . my mother was . . . she stayed home.”

“Did she say anything about the day ahead of her? Did she seem upset? Unsettled?” Rollins scribbles away in pen.

“No.” The blood in your veins feel like acid as you try to remember the man who’d left your apartment yesterday morning. Your eyes surge with fresh tears. “She seemed n-normal but -- I -- I think I need to tell you that there was a guy at our apartment; I mean, she . . . she had a guy _over_. . . I didn’t see much of him . . . but . . .”

The detectives both sit very still, and Benson meets Rollins swift but pointed look with one of amazement -- like a piece of a puzzle had slid into place. They hadn’t even gotten to the part where they would ask about potential lovers, with the first examination of Vivian Miller’s body revealing the perpetrator showed mercy and _didn’t_ mutilate Vivian to the same degree as the other three. But why? Dodds had proposed a close relationship. Rollins had countered that with the missing teeth.

Olivia sits forwards as she regards you, glasses sneaking along the brim of her nose. She seems like she’s about to deliver you bad news, so you sink further down in the chair to prepare for it.

“We had reason to believe it was someone she might have known personally, so this is relevant information. You’re doing great, okay? Can you remember anything about him; his eyes? The sound of his voice?”

“Maybe . . . his height? Could you describe him to a sketch artist?” Rollins wonders too, clicking her pen and turning the notepad towards you instead. When your head shakes back and forth, a few fresh droplets bound down your cheeks without permission. You hadn’t seen anything besides the back of his scalp, the trim of his haircut, and the shapes his body made from the staircase. If you had known how important it was to see his face -- to learn his name. If you had _known_.

Olivia is glad she’s one of the most experienced officers in New York City when it comes to dealing with victim trauma. She’s waited patiently for hours as terribly hurt women and horrified, lost children try to find their courage to remember their stories. As you try to stifle your cries, apologizing over the heave your ribs make, she never loses sight of what’s important -- taking care of the wounded. 

“Take all the time you need. Can we get you anything?”

You shake no again, pulling all the loose and sloppy hairs back from a flushed red face. The process of mourning had already begun, drowning your spirits as the adrenaline rush crashes. You could fall asleep here if they’d let you. 

“I can’t d-describe him, I’m sorry. I never saw his face -- j-just his . . . hair. HIs clothes.” Thunderclouds of doubt already befalls your mind; _everyone_ had been wrong about Charles Moore, and now your roommate was gone. “I don’t even know if he’s . . . the one who . . . who --”

“We don’t know that either, but it doesn’t hurt to look into it.” Amanda soothes your worries, jotting down the details anyways. 

“Do you know where she met the man in your apartment?” Olivia wonders next. Your expression sours as you recall the giddiness in Vivian’s voice, fingernails digging little crescents into your thighs. It had been a half a statement right before your mother had knocked at the front door.

“She met him at _Gianni’s_.” Your reply is hoarse. 

“Okay.” Benson had guessed as much. “Well . . . with your permission, we can search your apartment and see if he left anything behind that could help us find out just who we’re talking about.” Olivia proposes, the pressure of urgency underlying her polite suggestion. You dig in your pocket for your keys immediately, dropping the brass and silver hoops on the big, brown table. 

“Take them. Anything you need.” You sound like you're begging, but you’d give everything to find out who did this. It couldn’t bring her back, and it makes you feel hollow and numb to know she suffered, but you could at least help bring her peace. “I don’t think I want to go home anyways.”

“Actually, about that.” Olivia strives to pick the right way to say this without spooking you, but it was better to be honest up front than have you find out later. “We want you to be safe during all of this, so we’d like to provide you with a police detail for the next 48 hours as we try to uncover what happened. Just until we’re certain you’re not in danger being alone.”

“Okay.” You weren’t usually so keen on having someone trying to vigilantly oversee you, but this was larger than a bar fight or someone skeezy guy on the train trying to cop a feel. Someone unfamiliar had traversed your home and until he was ruled out of being the person who ended your friend’s life, you were glad to have someone lingering on the street watching your back. “Can I request a Detective?”

Olivia’s mouth turns up just a little. 

“We would be assigning the protective detail to you _and_ Detective Carisi, as I assumed you’re a package deal.” 

The laughter that bubbles from your chest is met with a lack of a smile. You couldn’t today. But it feels right to hear her say it.

“You’re not wrong, I guess.” The heels of your hands rub away smudged makeup and drying tears, trying to clear your mind. You’re not sure how Dominick will feel about having another cop lingering around for the next few days, but you decide to cross that bridge when you get there. You had heard _Better Batter_ had closed their glass doors for the next week to allow the NYPD access to the crime scene, so you were out of the job too. 

You ponder where you’ll go, if not back to your apartment. Matt and Javiar’s? Dominick’s place? Maybe you’ll go home for Christmas after all.

“There is one thing you could do for me.” Your head tilts with a sudden thought, tentatively grabbing the pen with shaking fingers. All you can manage is a name. “Vivian’s mother is an active duty Marine . . . she’s overseas. Someone has to tell her. I . . . I don’t know if I have the strength.”

“Of course.” Rollins reaches to get the notepad back, underlining the name for emphasis. It wouldn’t be the easiest thing in the world to get the word out, but it would get done. “We’ll make sure she finds out today.”

“Thanks.” The sadness poisons your voice. “Is there anything else I can do to help?” 

“Yes.” Winces Benson. “We have a few more questions, actually.”

You agree, answering as well as you can -- the shape of his head, what Vivan drinks at the bar, the schedule of the route to work. You talk so much you’ve become exhausted between sudden fits of tears at a memory or choking anger when you remember the thin white sheet canvasing her body at the crime scene. None of this was _fair_ ; you feel crimson with disdain.

It’s nearly 3 in the afternoon when they _finally_ have enough to let you go. Rollins had disappeared first, taking the name on the paper pad with her. You know you’d asked quite a big favor, but telling Vivian’s mother you’d let something like this happen would crush you. Someone else could handle the hard part. 

Olivia stood too, but she doesn’t leave. She just perches on the pointy edge of the table and takes the lead of speaking first.

“We’re going to figure this out. I know it doesn’t seem like it now, but he’s not going to get away with it.”

“How do you know?” You don’t mean to be so emotional, but the waterworks do what they will now. Tomorrow would be better, but right now you cripple. “I mean n-no disrespect, but I know enough about this by now to know he’s elusive. He’s a _m-monster_.”

“Because he’s finally made a mistake.” She says confidently, shifting her bifocals to her crown. The spark of hope squashed in your sternum flickers in the pit. You’re scared to let it burn, but . . . “He let someone else see him. If the DNA he left on Vivian is a match to someone we can book, would you be willing to do a lineup?”

Your hesitation isn’t based on the fact that you don’t want to help -- you’d bleed for her, if that meant Vivian got justice. But you’re not sure whether or not you’d seen enough of him to be efficient for spotting him out of a crowd. You’d thought that about Moore too, and look what happened there.

“Yes.” You finally answer, because it was the right thing to do. “I’ll do anything you need --”

The door swings open again as you’re talking. The beating organ in your chest floods with relief as you and Sergeant Benson watch Dominick stride in with counselor Raphael on his heels. Whatever important news he had on the tip of his tongue is forgotten and adrift, words falling apart at how unwell you seem -- dark circles half moon beneath sticky lashes, dewy eyes full of anguish. He’s never seen you cry. 

“Hey. I heard. I’m sorry.” Rafael laments from the heart as Sonny prudently walks your way. His approach makes every muscle tighten back up in the chair, and when he crouches down to put both temperate palms on your knees -- it’s over. The blinding nuisance of tears makes you blink them free once more, falling into your lap and staining your jeans. 

Barba clears his throat, looking to Olivia to give you a shred of privacy. 

“Liv, we need to talk. As in now, preferably.”

“Alright, I’ll . . . I’ll give you two a moment.” She dismounts from the table ledge, excusing herself and Rafael. But before she departs completely, the Sargeant twists the door handle in her grasp and delays. You see her through the haze. “Carisi, when you’re done here come find me.”

And then the door shuts once more. 

“I’m _so_ sor —“

“-- don’t.” You put your fingers over his lips, swallowing harsh to redeem your composure. “ _Please_. Everyone keeps saying it. It won’t help.”

His larger hand frees yours from his face, holding it close to the buttons of his vest so you can feel the pulse between a set of sturdy ribs. Your boyfriend always knows what to say, so you’re a bit surprised as he silently contemplates, soothingly rubbing the grooves and knuckles of your shaking hand. The chilly feeling in your joints starts to lessen.

“Do ya’ wanna go?”

“Go where?” You close your eyes. “I gave Amanda the keys to my place.”

“I can take you anywhere.” He counteroffers. Blindly, you squeeze your fingers on his.

“Can I . . .” You feel like an adolescent child asking for help, but after a moment of thinking about it, you’re certain he’d give you whatever you want. It’s relieving in the least, since all you want to do now is sleep. Having your eyes stay closed for this long tells as much. “ . . . can I stay at your apartment? Just for tonight. I really want to lay down.”

“Yeah. Of course.” He stays put where he is for a moment longer, studying you for any signs of eruption, before standing. When you flutter your eyes at the movement, he ducks down to kiss your forehead once. It’s humane and kind, wordlessly vanquishing some of your distress. He gets you standing on two unsteady feet. “Lemme see what I can do to getcha outta here, alright?”

Carisi takes you with him in stride as he hunts for Sergeant Benson in an increasing wave of police, big hand never leaving the degree of your elbow. He sees Chief Dodds bickering back and forth with his son by the big white board updated with Vivian’s picture, so he leads you the opposite direction in the same heartbeat, avoiding that meeting at all costs. The pair of you round the corner together, and you catch Rollins’ with a poker face at her desk, slowly rocking her and her ever growing baby belly in the flexible chair. The black corded phone line pressed between her ear and shoulder tell you all you need to know. 

You’re not sure what Benson tells Carisi -- you wait patiently on a little bench near the elevators, crossing and uncrossing your ankles as you let the curiosity distract you. It was probably about the police detail, but the little brush fire of hope Olivia had sparked to ambition inside your gut prays for good news. DNA, a witness ID -- anything. 

_Come on, Viv._ Your conscious entreats the universe. _You didn’t deserve this. Help them out._

“. . . -- _hey_.” Time has passed differently since this morning, so you’re not sure how long you’ve been signal boosting your prayers out there. But Sonny’s shaking your shoulder, so it must have been long enough you hadn’t noticed him return. “Doin’ okay? We can go now.” 

“Okay.” You chose not to answer his question as you pop up, engine revved at the idea of finally leaving. You wanted to bolt -- to shower off the truth, to nap away the pain, to call your mother. The elevator arrives promptly as you stand a hands width away, loading in together. 

The second the doors shut, you can’t control yourself, turning your entire body to look at him. 

“What did Olivia say to you?"

Dominick tucks his hands in his jacket pocket and peeks back at you. 

“She asked if you were plannin’ on staying with me, and I said ya’. Then she explained the stay at home order for the next 48 hours.” 

You know him well enough by now -- the way his jaw trembles tight. He wants to say more. You refuse to give in as the elevator descends another floor down, channeling the terrifyingly perfect gaze your mother made you squirm under pressure with the duration of your life. He’s an investigatory officer, so it would take a lot more under normal circumstances to snap his composure.

But for you?

“And . . . the M.E.s office is runnin’ DNA right now for a potential match. Moore was officially released, all charges dropped.” He looks back at the doors instead of you as the final _ding!_ pings off. “But that’s all I know so far. I’m sorry.”

You can’t tell if it’s the truth or not. You’re not really sure if Sonny has ever lied to you, always poking holes at what he can and can’t say, letting the details leak out in front of you instead. But when he tosses his arm around your shoulders and drags you in, traveling hastily through the parking garage towards his car, you can’t seem to find the will to continue badgering to find out more.

Traffic isn’t terrible, therefore by 5 you’ve showered, borrowed a big teal t-shirt and flung yourself on top of his mattress for a desperately needed break. You can hear his feet moving about his apartment out the door, but the heavy blanket of grief finally crushes you to the mattress. Every thought you had left explodes into little colorful dots as you succumb and tip back to slumber. 

In the heat of the investigation, Detective Carisi is unable to join you.

Laptop in hand with a thumb drive plugged in and buzzing, he opens the door a few minutes later and spots your unconscious sprawl across his sheets. Deciding working here with you was much better than his office, he’s still in his work clothes — minus the dress shoes he kicks off at the door, cushioning into your right on the duvet. There were worse ways to work from home.

He notices three new emails in the time it took to get back to his apartment -- two from Rollins, one for Barba.

**rollinsama@svu.nypddirect: No Subject**
    
    
    Attachment: 3

**rollinsama@svu.nypddirect: OPEN ASAP apartment results**
    
    
    IMPORTANT!!!ust heard from forensics foreign fingerprints were discovered in

**barbaraf@svu.nypddirect: Something Moore Mentioned**
    
    
     Attachment: 1

Amanda’s first email was three scanned documents -- her chicken scratch notes from your interrogation at the precinct, a forwarded notice from the U.S. Military emergency contact helpline on reaching Vivian’s mother, and a body identification confirmation form for you to sign. He barely gives them a second glance with her second ominous email calling to be opened, and his heart stutters severely as he swallows every word.
    
    
    IMPORTANT!!just heard from forensics foreign fingerprints were discovered in **every room** of the girls apartment. all are matches to one unidentified male
    
    
    crossmatching dna for miller, gomez, johnson + dimarco
    
    
    waiting on results

You roll over in your sleep, head nuzzling the crook of his arm, but he’s so frozen as he reads the email for a second and third time that you don’t arouse. Dominick’s tongue nervously traces his bottom lip as he thinks -- every room? Vivian’s, _yours_ , the kitchen, the bathroom? The callous creature torturing New York City could have touched your things, rummaged your stuff, learned your life. There was a chance you’d been in the crosshairs of a perpetrator by mere minutes. He’s never felt more territorial in his entire life, and it bursts the burner on the urgency of catching the right guy. 

He’s still like a statue, mind bouncing from detail to detail. Benson had told him you’d admitted to Vivian taking a lover, and as he clicks back to Rollins notes, he can see the admission on paper -- someone they’d met at _Gianni’s_ the night he’d picked you up from the bar. He thinks of every face he’d seen that stuck out; the suave and drunken barfly, the two men arguing over a dart board play, your two gay friends, the bartender. 

They had the tapes from the pub _,_ but that was a dead end too. Vivian had left alone. 

So who had shown up at your apartment? Was it someone he’d seen? Or someone you’d met earlier in the night that you can’t recall?

He glances down at your lovely face, finding it relaxed for the first time today. He wants to trace the shapes you make, soothe the way your chest shudders with every wet breath, but he goes back to see Barba’s email first.

It’s a statement from the court reporter on Moore’s final day in trial before the news broke about another murder. He scans through the record, all the back and forth jargon between Rafael and Mathew’s third day at the cage fight, and doesn’t find much that would be helpful besides one comment underlined unlike the rest.

> 
>     _MOORE: I do a lotta jobs for Hogan’s -- hell, I’ve even done cleaned that good for nothin’ bar before. Look at what that got me._
>     

Onto the hunch Barba was poking at, Carisi loads up an older folder from his desktop: the first investigation’s witness testimonies. He’s got all the wait staff from the local eateries here, like _Better Batter, Papa John’s_ , _Frangelico’s Pub_ and -- _Gianni’s_. His eyes dart right to left and back again as he rereads every server and bartender’s statements and alibis, coming up cold when they all correspond with what they’d scrounged up as the truth. 

It wouldn’t hurt to go back and do the whole process again, he thinks. Make sure everything lines up. 

He pulls open security footage too. _Better Batter_ had a camera out their back door, where Vivian’s body was found as the sun had risen. When Carisi had found Benson in her office, Tutuola, Barba and both the Dodds had been circled around the camera file playing from her computer like vultures — the suspect in question had worn all black and a big and heavy rain hood, like an oil painting picture blending into the night. He was tall enough to swiftly hop the fence, with a big black bag slung across his back that makes Sonny’s stomach sick. 

He had picked a spot behind the two way gate, hidden from the eyeline of the end of the clip. 

Time breezes into the night as the detective combs through evidence, setting sun blanketed by frothy snow clouds. Tutuola was on his way to a few of the _Better Batter_ employees home addresses to question your coworkers now. It would have to be someone who knew how to go unnoticed. 

When the clock creeps closer to 8, he’s had just enough rereading the same details over and over to go insane, index finger sore from refreshing his email. Closing the lid, he deposits the laptop on the side table and turns back to take a look at you. 

Surprise shoots across his expression when he meets your eyes in the barely lit bedroom; the only light still providing any vision now that his computer was shut off bleeding through the door he’d left ajar. He’s not sure how long you’ve been awake for, and you don’t say anything -- just watch him watch you. Sonny wants to squeeze every part of you in his arms just so he knows you’re safe and that you won’t go anywhere, but he’s not sure you’re wanting to be touched. 

“I don’t . . .” You bite your tongue between a pair of incisors, voice as quiet as a mouse. “. . . understand. How could this happen?”

Sonny breathes out heavy as he shuffles down the bed, spreading out completely. Blue eyes spy the ceiling fan going around a few times before he had his answer.

“If there’s one thing I’ve learned? It’s never the ones that deserve it, ya’ know? Vivian was a good girl.” Your eyes water for the umpteenth time, because he’s right, but it still hurts the same. “And predators feed off it. He knows we’re zeroed in on the area and did it right under our noses.”

“No one knew.” You reach your palm out, rubbing it along the hard muscles of his chest. You like the way his even breathing roasts every frigid bone in your body. You don’t blame the NYPD for her death; maybe it was because you knew so much. It’s the first positive you can think of. “I can’t remember him, Sonny. If I just _could_ . . .”

His head tilts along the pillows and you’re nose to nose, breathing in the same air he breathes out. You want to tousle his hair, loosen all the fringes. But you’re too weary to move yet. 

“I don’t want _anything_ to happen to you.” It has nothing to do with what you just said, but it makes you emotional either way. “Almost seems cruel we were so sure’a Moore being the one to watch out for when the real monster was creeping close to you anyway.”

“He didn’t pick me. He picked her instead.” It’s said in a whisper. You toss a leg over his, coming in closer. “And I’ll kill him for it.”

It’s not a joke, and Carisi doesn’t laugh, but you didn’t expect him too. There was something certain and so very damaging about the way you say it that he starts to feel tense. Like it was something you actually might try. Until the sour stranger was caught, you could _try_ all you want, but you wouldn’t leave his sight long enough to have to make that sort of choice. 

This was life and death, this was a rapist and a sadist, and it had skipped the millions of people in New York City and roped you and your late roommate further into the forest fire.

“Can I ask you somethin’?” He brushes hair from your forehead, stuck with sweat from your restless sleep. 

“Yes.”

“Was Vivian ever . . . _intimate_ with any of your staff?” You wince tenderly when he says her name, so he remembers for the future to try to avoid it until you’re ready. You hold your tongue as you think, eyes darting back and forth between his. 

“One. But he didn’t look like the man in my apartment.” You remember Jackson — a friendly pre-med student waiting tables for extra money. Vivian had flirted with him every day for a few weeks after he’d started before they’d finally gone a few rounds at his place, and there was no grand finale; his schooling got too heavy and he eventually focused on academics. Last you heard he was at New York Presbyterian for his residency. “What are you thinking?”

“Security tapes were sent back to us.” He can feel you holding your breath. “He hid from the cameras, so we’re gonna start questioning your coworkers again. Gotta be someone local. _Someone_ knows something.”

“I can’t think of anyone who would do this.” You think of the cooks, the hosts, the servers — everyone _loved_ Vivian. And not just at the restaurant; cursed as it was, _Gianni’s_ had bonded the wait staff over the span of a few blocks together for years. Amiable men and women had come and gone from your friend and dating pool. You realize, however, that it doesn’t mean one of them wasn’t incapable of doing something so awful. 

You feel scared for the first time. Maybe it had been the pain of losing Vivian clouding the reality of the situation, but now that it hits, you know you’re not in the clear. The two of you had been friends for a year. If it was someone she had known well enough to bring home, you probably knew them too.

Somehow you scoot even closer to your lover, sneaking all your body parts into the crannies of his side. He helps by lifting his arm, bicep folding you to his chest. And that’s where you stay, neither of you saying anything else for quite some time. He’s not surprised when your breath steadies, eyelids fluttering shut to sleep off the pain again. 

Watching you find peace, there’s something he’s thinking about saying to you. Just a few words that he’s becoming more and more sure of every day. 

But now wasn’t the time. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ayoooo 50k+ words i can't believe it my baby fic is getting so big !!!! 
> 
> ok which would u rather see a barba x intern!reader fic or a benson x stripper!reader fic bc i have IDEAS for both????
> 
> until next time!! if we're lucky, we're gonna be getting some answers.
> 
> with love, bagels


	11. Onions & Olives

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You remember who was in your apartment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> woahhhhhhh boyyyyyyyyyy i can't say anything just enjoy be mindful of tags thank u and goodnight

* * *

**CLEARSIDE APARTMENTS  
** **9001 CLEARSIDE DRIVE APT #417  
** **MANHATTAN, NEW YORK  
** **MONDAY, DECEMBER 20TH**

* * *

The second to last box left to be taped up is about to slip off the bed at the same time your phone buzzes, so it’s a struggle to lunge for the personal items and still see the text in the dash. 

All you’ve known for the last few hours is cardboard and tape, so you’re happy to take a second for yourself, leaping across the comforter. The pillowcases still smell like Vivian’s fruity shampoo even nearly a week after the last time she’d slept here, even after the forensics team had their hands all over them too, and it makes the corners of your mouth lift to a small smile. You had a feeling wherever she was, she was missing you too.

It’s a text from your boyfriend. You can visualize him at his desk: all stretched out and focused on the case at hand while he twiddles a pen back and forth -- not unlike when he does work from home. He cheats his attention by checking in.
    
    
    Sonny 5:10  
    
    _How’s packing?_

Setting the phone on your chest, your eyes flutter around the nearly emptied bedroom -- pictures have come down, trinkets secured in bubble wrap. The comforter and sheets had to be stripped, but you saved that for last. The majority of the day was spent delicately putting all of Vivian’s things away so you could give them back to Delilah, Vivian’s mother. The marine was due to fly in on bereavement leave any day now, and you wanted the transition to be as easy as possible for her. It was the least you could do.

Your hands tingle as you reply.
    
    
    Sonny 5:11  
    
    _just about done.  
    
    __how’s work?_

As always you yearn to inquire on any update, but you know he would have told you already if there was. The last five days had been a _nightmare_ \-- the Special Victims Unit was in boiling, pressuring, _damming_ hot water with the Chief of police, the mayor and governor, and quite frankly, the rest of the New York City population. The news of Vivian’s murder had made the papers and the evening updates by the time Charles Moore’s trial had fallen apart, suppressing the people’s spirits right before the holidays.

You wince to yourself when you recall the phone call from your father the morning after you’d crashed at Sonny’s. It had woken the two of you at 5:09, right around when he would have turned on the morning news. It was an exhausting, gut wrenching explanation to have to give, but inevitably you had told him everything -- because you couldn’t come up with a reason not to anymore. 

Together your parents convinced you to go home to Buffalo for the holidays; not forever, of course. You wouldn’t be leaving until the 24th, allowing you a few days to work at the restaurant. 

_Better Batter_ had reopened their doors, but from what you’ve heard via text, the bad press had left the diner down on it’s normal body count. You’d been given off of work until tomorrow for an extra few days to grieve, yet all it had done was leave you bored with very little to do except think. It had worked in the squads favor, since they’d brought you back in for questioning once and followed up at your apartment the day you finally had the nerve to go home.

That day had been Friday, and it had been the hardest, but having Dominick lingering around had lessened the blow. You and your late roommate’s belongings were all in different spots; rummaged, dusted and proofed for any sort of trace of a killer. Together you’d put all your things back where they should have been to begin with, minus a break for lunch that had abruptly ended; interrupted when Sergeant Benson knocked at your door.

What she had to say had stung. The manhunt had traveled far beyond the city block where _Better Batter_ resides: all of Manhattan was under scrutiny as any whisper was thoroughly investigated. They’d brought ten men in for questioning so far: four of your coworkers, two bartenders and two patrons from _Gianni’s_ , _and_ to your surprise, Matt and Javiar. 

The two had offered their DNA willingly and polite, of course, still mourning and hopeful for answers. However, left and right alibis were getting the squad nowhere; your coworkers had been combed through and double checked, all elsewhere during the period of time Vivian would have been with the suspect. One bartender at _Gianni’s_ was a new father to twins, home all night, and the other worked a second job who’d confirmed his whereabouts with Dodds. The two bar patrons had been in questioning when she arrived, but by the time Olivia had left, Sonny had an new email clearing them too.

Your phone buzzes against your chest.
    
    
    Sonny 5:15
    _Fin and I are going back to Long Island to talk to Octavia Johnson family_

_Octavia Johnson_. You know the name through the trial only -- one of the two working prostitutes first found back in October. You’re not sure what information they could be searching for over the bridge, but the hummingbird of hope in your chest sings for something tangible like it has every day since your roommate had passed. With almost a week going by since Vivian had been found, not having any answers was driving everyone near insane.

The phone vibrates in your hand.
    
    
    Sonny 5:16  
    
    _Should be back by 7_

The little clock on your phone screen says its 5:16, giving you an hour or two to kill before his arrival. You didn’t have anything special planned for the night -- takeout, couchsitting and hopefully some rest. Not that you wouldn’t mind spending some time underneath him either. 

In your mourning, he’d been a godsend. The day after Vivian was found he noticed late in the afternoon over the brim of his laptop that you still hadn’t risen from the couch and that you hadn’t eaten in two days. His fridge had been running a bit dry, so delivery had been the only option until the stay at home order was over. The patrol cop on the street had nearly had an aneurysm and called for backup when the pizza delivery guy had taken the steps to his apartment.

You hadn’t been particularly hungry, but something about the way he’d dragged you by both hands to the kitchen made you realize he was trying. So you tried for him too. 

Every day had gotten increasingly better to deal with until Saturday, even after he was forced to go back to work and you were forced to go home. The night before you’d crammed the pair of you on your bed for an early night, and the next morning he was gone with a kiss on the forehead and a direct petition to not go anywhere. His absence had left the apartment silent, but it didn’t feel completely empty; if there was any sort of afterlife, you bet Vivian would never really leave you.

You’d spent the day like you had the last few days -- on the couch, snuggled under every blanket in the apartment. It was partially due to the weather; a brisky 20 degrees throughout the entire weekend shattered new records for New York. The other half of you felt the cocoon relieve some of the anxiety that had lingered in wake of the trauma, even though the sandpaper feeling at your soul never ceased. 

Dominick had come home startled by your sudden wave of passion, nearly tugging him across the hallway to your bedroom. Some pain was better healed with pleasure, and you’d spent the duration of the night showing him how much you cared.

Fingers tap away at the screen. 
    
    
    Sonny 5:22  
    
    _cant wait_

When you’re ready to get back up and moving, you spend another hour finishing up the apartment. Some of the things in the living room and kitchen had belonged to her too, so in the end, this room has everything stacked neatly by the sofa -- ready for her mother. At the close, you kiss your fingers once and tap the boxes like a blessing. You would always love her.

By 6:30, a delivery order of Italian food from the little place nearby that Dominick likes more than he’ll admit arrives right before you shower, letting in a ridiculous amount of cold air behind the closed door. You quickly traverse back the other way when you realize it’s leaking sauce all over the tile, trying to get to the kitchen and neatly stack it for later. 

When the steam wafting from the bathroom signals the pipes have finally done their job, you strip and submerge under the stream, taking your time scrubbing away the dust and grime from wrestling your apartment all day. You shave every bit with your lover in mind and lather up, feeling a little more like yourself as the scolding water washes away the week. You were home. 

When you finally feel satisfied with a job well done, the faucet creaks off and you step out. Wrapping up in a fluffy white towel hanging from the bar, you’re twirling the water free from drenched ringlets when movement just out the door nearly makes you scream.

“ _Oh my god_ \--” You clutch the thin material around your chest and the countertop at once, heartbeat on deceleration as Dominick crowds in the door frame. He’s not smiling, which you don’t like, burly arms crossed over his chest when he leans in and regards your adrenaline come down. “-- you nearly gave me a heart attack. Jerk.”

“And _you_ left your front door unlocked.” Ah, _there_ it is. The reason for his sour greeting. You realize that he must be right -- how else would he be in here now? You’ve already considered giving him a key, but with everything that had happened to Vivian, you weren’t sure how much longer you’d be residing at this address. It’s not something you’d brought up yet, but you file it for later.

“I . . .” His eyes follow a bead of water that sinks down your collar and between your breasts as you meekly apologize. You can feel it rolling down your sternum as blue eyes seem to follow it beneath the towel, down to your freezing toes. Your thighs touch against the sink like you could hide away, but with the way his jaw hardens, you know there’s nowhere to go. “I’m sorry. It wasn’t on purpose.”

“You _can’t_ be doin’ that right now.” He’s scolding you as he unwinds his arms, blonde eyebrows scrunched up with concern. Then he’s shuffling, big palms capturing your jaw just tight enough you almost gasp. Like maybe this would make you hear him better. You’re face to face and his blue eyes are shooting back and forth between yours, icy and piercing with intensity. It makes you contemplate whether or not you’re more scared or turned on when his tongue traces the bottom of his lip. “Okay? It’s not safe. _Please_.”

“ _Okay_ ,” You emphasize. He must have had a bad day, “but the food was --” 

Sonny kisses you _hungry_ , silencing, like he doesn’t care what excuses you were about to give him. Maybe you’d pissed him off. A shocked and sudden moan vibrates in your throat when his tongue shoves through the barrier of your teeth, delighting in battle with yours. He meant business then. 

Dominick’s silver belt buckle presses your tummy through the towel between you, his hands find a grip in the tangles of your hair, sharp and strong. You could sift into the cracks in the floors just like this. And when you have to escape for air, ducking away bright eyed and flushed at every curve, you weakly push him away. The towel slips more loose without your twist on it, exposing just enough that you’re both attentive of what he can now see. 

He finally breaks a small smile at the way you puff for air, a couple fingers letting go of your hair to snatch the point of your chin.

“So pretty . . . _damn_.” When he lets go it’s only to go for the navy tie at his neck, pulling the knot free. You’re quivering because you know the signs of something delicious to come. He’d surprised you with ferocity, but you play the underdog, squirming just enough that the damp towel pools at your toes. Hadn’t you promised to always be naked? 

He chuckles, baritone and honey, and when the tie is free he’s back on your body, dipping to talk at your earlobe. 

“But God do you drive me _nuts_.”

“Isn’t it more fun -- that way?” He agrees with your reasoning with a humming sound as he finds your lips again; at least a little. Maybe not in the instance of the front door, since he’d severely mentioned locking up to keep you safe when he wasn’t around multiple times, and on a gut feeling was sent all shades of bristling and fearful when he’d tried and opened opened up no problem. But in _other_ ways . . .

“Ya’ know what?” His voice is low, grated. “Turn around.”

“Make me.” It rolls off your tongue like a whip, and you almost regret it. Almost. You were already in hot water. But he does as you so brazenly offer without thinking much more on it, narrowed eyes and big hands taking both your biceps and turns you around on slippery flooring, _in spite_ of your faux fight back. You’re hips hate the feeling of the granite sink, but _love_ the feeling of his erection through his pants on your ass, so you ignore the first ache in favor of being manhandled.

“What am I gonna do with ya', huh?” You catch his lusty look in the defogging mirror, then longingly spy on his long fingers, unbuttoning the pressed light blue collared shirt untucked from his utility belt. When he’s tossing the material from shrugging shoulders, you realize he hadn’t yet put his gun and badge somewhere safe. In nothing, you can feel grooves of metal and plastic digging into flesh like a little thrill. “Always mouthin’ off. Didn’t listen --”

“It was a . . .” His eyebrow beelines up, because _of course_ , you’re still going to be his favorite challenge and keep talking. Naughty fingers jerk his belt loops from behind, lightly scraping down the crease and meat of his thighs when he tries to buck you off. “ . . . an accident.”

“And I believe ya’.” The mid-spot on your spine tickles from Dominick brushing all the hair there out of the way, while the other hand unclasps the heavy belt and carefully sets it above the toilet. You mewl at the sound of clanking, heightened at the friction near your behind without any sort of stimulation. “But --”

“No buts.” You plea.

“-- _but_ ,” He ignores you now, talking enough for the both of you, wandering around to your ass then your pubic mound. You reel back from the sink to give him more access, but there’s not very much room left to give; squished between the brick wall of his body and the actual material, “you gotta learn somehow, right?”

“I’ve learned.” You’re not sure what you’re promising you understand, but you’d say anything to have him focus on where you want him -- instead, his fingertips trail your stomach to the inseam of your thighs. You’re starting to really love the sound of his laughter, even when it’s this breathless and clouded with sexual starvation. When he does finally cup your pussy, his teeth nip the pulse point at your neck. It’s just a soft passing but you still shake away, wriggling in his palm when your eyes lock in the reflection.

“I think . . .” His middle finger is long and dips to find out just how wet you are for him. It nearly grinds the gears of his train of thought to a stop at the reality, but you gasp and hiss out like a little cat in his restrictive press, nails clasping behind his ears blindly as you search for growing bliss. It helps him find his way, spying your shuddering chest and stretching tippy toes in the mirror. “ . . . you’re going to really, _really_ going to want to come for me, an’ I’m going to tell ya’ no. And _you’re_ gonna listen.”

You can barely open your eyes let alone reply when one finger is replaced with two, snuggling inside you slow, flickering white hot nerves through your body. Your nails scratch along his scalp, attracting a feral noise from your favorite Detective’s chest. You’ve spurred him on so he picks a frustrating pace, every so often curling against a _dazzling_ spot.

When you’re just about resisting the pleasure, bending and struggling like maybe that could escape the rapt attention at your clit, he can sense your impending crescendo before you can speak it. Everything ends at once -- the stellar feeling between your legs, the constant pressure of him at your back, the strength in your knees. You nearly hug the sink as he steps back, and you almost die when you watch him suck off his fingers in the mirror. 

“Sonny, _please_ \-- I was so cl --”

“Shh. Don’t.” His damp hand snags a handful of your hair, the other working at the button of his dress pants and boxers. You bite your swollen bottom lip to refrain from moaning out loud at the tug, the feeling alone soaking you to the point of discomfort. Your body always responded to his every touch like it was meant just for him. It’s a heartfelt thought, in a sea of wanton heat. 

When he’s free, you’re yanked a little further back so all you can do is focus on what’s in front of you -- the mirror was clear by now, revealing your sweaty, naked tangle together. You grin like a brat at the vision of it, revelling in the way he can’t stop looking either. 

But then he wastes no time and sinks inside you, crushing you against the sink, all muscle and sweat and musk -- and focus is just a little bit harder to come by. Eyes cross and your hands scan across the countertop as you sink further down. It’s so much at once; his hand at the jut of your hip to keep you from getting away, his cock fulfilling every need you’ve ever had. You hear him say something, but it’s fizzy. There’s just _feeling_ . You know he loves this moment, feeling you react to how _perfect_ it is, always hesitating to savor it before rocking your world.

And he does. He slips out just enough and finds ground again, breathing deep and sharp through his nose. Chills decorate your skin. The pace isn’t very kind, but you find it spurs something dark and ravenous you’ve been waiting for. Quick and precise, and at some point he takes mercy on your hair and finds pressing you to him with that same grip at your neck much better. You like the feeling of his chest hair, the brawny dips of his pecs. Losing oxygen from his fingers at your jugular, losing your mind when his lips find the corner of your earlobe.

“ _Christ_ , Doll -- _d-dammi un bacio_. . .” You have no clue what he said through the hot snarl against your teeth, but you tilt your head to kiss him mindlessly, unable to do anything else. It must be the right move since he slows to tease you like this, prideful at your listening skills. This new position rubs you right, body thrumming with every graze of his thighs against the back of yours. Every time his hand bows to rub the apex of where you’re joined.

You start twitching everywhere when you feel close.

“Sonny -- _fuck_ \--” It’s the first time you’ve said anything in a while, trying to keep your tongue at bay. That was the point of all of this right? To listen. Some sort of sexy obedience. But he’s fingering your clit, rock hard and sparking you up like a brush fire down below. It was almost over. “. . . I’m so -- don’t -- _please_ \--”

“Not . . . not yet.” He lets go of your neck and pushes you back down. Your hands leave trials on the mirror, trying to find some sort of purchase, but now you’re not sure how to _not_ come just like this, knees trembling together against the cabinets. He’s so good at what he’s doing that you’ve never had to make the choice between ignoring the bliss like your entire orgasm depends on it. “You’re so _wet_ , baby. _My girl —_ so . . . good for me.”

Something spills from your mouth because you’re trying to agree, but it sounds like an explicit or begging, or both. 

“I can’t --” You flutter when he bottoms out, struggling himself. He’s rubbing fast circles, watching you try to fuck yourself back in the reflection with nowhere to go, and it really solidifies his knowledge that you’re everything he’s ever really wanted, “-- not much -- _nng_. . .”

“It’s okay,” He’s right there too, hugging your body tight to his chest like you could melt together. He gives up, nuzzled into your collar, “good little thing for w-waiting, ya’? _Fuck._ You can come.”

You’re thankful for his mercy.

Even after hours pass from evening to dead of night, you’re still thinking about it. It’s the best you’ve felt in days. Whatever endorphins got released during sex with your boyfriend should be bottled and sold; though you’re not sure you’d be willing to share something so priceless. He’s got you sitting and swaying on his kneecaps at the dining room table while you scarf down chicken piccata at 11 o'clock, bare chest showing off how his heartbeat keeps time with yours. 

Exploring underneath your big t-shirt seems to keep him occupied for a while as you focus on downing everything on your plate. 

“Are you not hungry?” You raise an eyebrow at his delivery still sitting unopened just to your right. All the sex and another long shower where he juxtaposed his roughness by rubbing out your shoulders had jumpstarted your appetite, but not for Dominick. Whatever he replies is muffled at the back of your neck, baby hairs standing on edge when he pecks the area soft and sweet. Lilith giggles delight his ears as you duck away from the ticklish sensation.

Sonny’s unsure if he’s going to Heaven or Hell with you. Everything about your existence since the very first moment he’d spotted you licking off the frosting coating your fingertips has drawn him back in. He enjoys your conversation, adores your personality, can’t seem to stop seeking your attention. It was still a relatively new relationship -- you two press closer to two months -- but you meant more to him than he could piece together into words yet.

“Let’s go away for a weekend.” You’re chewing on a string bean, eyes wide as his nose scoots the collar of your shirt to the side. He’s edging closer to the spot under your jaw that makes you see colorful cartoon stars, so you try to keep even breathing as you reply.

“I love that idea.” It would be nice to leave the city together. You already would be taking some time off to see your parents for the holidays, and the details of Vivian’s wake and funeral were coming together, so what was a few extra days tacked on to it? “Where should we go?”

“Upstate, maybe. Outta state. Who knows.” He shrugs his shoulders against yours, teeth digging in on _that spot_. The food is forgotten, so you tilt your head to give more access. It’s one of his favorite things about you now; how intuitive to his desires you seem, so happy to be touched. 

If he was up for another match, you’d given him whatever he wants. 

“I’ll havta move some things around and ask for the time off. But no cases, no work. Just us.” It sounds like the best idea he’s ever come up with at the base of your jaw, stubble scratching the curve. “You can be my Christmas present.” 

“And you’ll be mine.”

* * *

 **BETTER BATTER DINER & BAKERY  
** **6344 LINEBAUGH AVENUE  
** **MANHATTAN, NEW YORK  
** **TUESDAY, DECEMBER 21ST**

* * *

There wasn’t enough coffee in all of the state of New York to make today any easier.

You expected the pity parade: sorrowful looks, the repetitive condolences, questions you couldn’t answer even if you knew. The majority of your morning had been braving yourself for the onslaught, but you _didn’t_ expect the silence -- your colleagues avoid your eyes and hesitate as you pass by all day, making you equally relieved and lonely in a crowd of faces. 

You reason it could be because they’ve all been hounded by the police for the last week, every employee under the eagle glare of Uncle Sam. Maybe it was because they weren’t sure what to say. You’re sure you look under the weather; an entire week of restless nights blurring into harsh mornings as you and the rest of your friends wait for justice. Loss made you meek, sparkling a little less bright.

There’s some returning customers, at least. They don’t know your story and you don’t tell it, glad to be preoccupied by sizzling hotcakes and running the register. The shift moves faster than you thought it would which ends up being a bonus, and at 3 you get a visitor. 

Mia meets you at the line reaching for table 14’s waffle combo. 

“There’s some guy here askin’ for you.” Heartbeat in your arteries, your head snaps to her curious expression, long blonde hairs accentuating the planes of her almond shaped face. She can’t know how terrifying an opening statement like that was for you, and if she sees it on your face, it’s disregarded. “I gotta ask: do you just, like, know all the hot guys in Manhattan, or are you just some sorta lucky charm?” 

“What does he look like?”

“Uh -- like I said: _sexbomb_ , brown hair, green eyes. Said he was a lawyer or attorney or _somethin’_ ; honestly, I was already undressing him so I . . .”

You couldn’t care less about how badly she wants to fuck the conselor, but you know it’s Rafael by the description. Mitigated breaths stabilize you and the heels at your feet squeak as you abandon your colleague without a second glance back. Dodging busy wait staff and conversing customers frustrates you when they don’t move along fast enough, but finally you’re in the lobby. He’s in an exorbitantly priced black suit at the diner top being poured a cup of coffee with a briefcase taking up the space next to him. You can already see a stack of red folders laying on top.

“Hi.” You come around to stand on the opposite side of the bar, smoothing down the pink maid uniform dusted in finite sugar dust and flour. “Please tell me you’re here to eat.”

“Just swinging through, actually.” He looks up from the cellphone in his hand, studying the bubblegum pink costume you wore every day for the first time. His eyebrow heads towards the ceiling, eyes shining with mild amusement. “You look like a bottle of Pepto, in case you were previously unaware.”

“Very funny.” You frown. “Is it good news or bad news?”

“Both.” You clearly didn’t want to beat around the bush with formalities, and he doesn’t blame you for it, so he slides over the three red folders. “I’ll give you the bad first: the DA’s office is going to need you to sign a few things, _today_ ; we can’t wait any longer -- so I stapled what you need pertaining to Moore’s trial. And this --”

He reaches into the pocket of his suit, pulling out _another_ folded stack of paper. It looks like a subpoena, but comes with a worse price tag.

“-- is from One PP. Olivia needs you to sign a body identification document so we can properly take care of Vivian until her family comes for her body, _officially_. You have my word they already were. There’s also a possession form since certain items were confiscated from your apartment for testing.”

Like the rest of the day, it’s not what you’re expecting -- _paperwork_. The white knuckle grip on the folders in your hands hurts like it was burning you, but you don’t quake. You’d run out of tears somewhere between Saturday and now, so in the end, you would do this for them. Because it was for her.

Leaning against the counter to avoid getting hit with a bounding tray, you pry. 

“And the good news?” 

“We’re friends, so this is between us, amiga.” He brings the coffee cup to his lips, blowing away puffs of steam from the top. “I was informed this morning there is a potential lead.”

This is news to you, though you hadn’t heard from Dominick since he’d kissed you goodbye and ducked out before the sun shuttered through the curtains. Like the other three women, the days had crept by with no new advancements, so learning there was fruition in their journey to the truth makes you flush with apprehension. 

“I don’t know everything yet, but from what I was told at the station there’s a problem with someone’s alibi. They’re following up now.” His eyes dart from you to a few of the passing busboys on their way to the monstrosity that was table 24. “So remember to . . . be mindful.”

You don’t get anything else out of him, especially when your head chef almost takes the doors off the kitchen looking for food runners. He’s leaving shortly after anyways, dropping a twenty on the black checkbook while reminding you to give the documents to Carisi when you see him. He says something else in Spanish as you walk him to the glass doors: “Te acompaño en este momento de dolor.”

You don’t know what it means, but when he pats you on the shoulder, it must be something nice.

You take a moment to drop the folders at your locker to avoid coffee spills or butter smudges and text your boyfriend in between the lunch rush.
    
    
    Sonny 3:19  
    
    _barba came in._

You ache to inquire about his whereabouts, curiosity bubbling in your guts, but Rafael had called you _amiga_ and the last thing you wanted to do was scuffle a budding friendship. It takes everything in you to shut your locker door, leaving it at that. If he could tell you, Sonny would.

From then on out, the day continues on like it had started; in a confusing spectacle. You drop two plates at different times, somewhat embarrassingly for a decorated waitress. A newly wed couple celebrates with their family of 9 for the rest of your shift, occupying your mind over refills and gooey tarts. Mia helps in every way she can, sensing how off your game you are after the attorney’s visit.

“I hope you made some money kissin’ all that _ass_ , because we’re going drinking. I’ll invite the day crew.” The metal bench in the locker room makes your ass sore as she slings her arm slings around your shoulders, squeezing you to her breasts. Shift change had arrived with a dinner rush, allowing a new wave of night servers to take your places and make some money. 

You realize this is the most she’s spoken to you in months. What an unlikely ally, trying to boost your spirits. Ellen peeks from behind her locker, in just a sports bra and a pair of panties.

“Did you say drinks? My divorce finalized today and the kids are with the shitty bastard, so I’m in.”

“I . . . I don’t know.” You’d invited Dominick to stay with you again tonight, and with the fresh pile of homework Rafael had very clearly made your upmost important task, going anywhere besides your apartment screams _bad idea_. “I have a lot to do. Barba -- er, the lawyer that came in today gave me things I have to sign. For . . . for Vivian.”

“So sign ‘em at the bar and _invite_ the lawyer.” Mia releases you to pat your cheek. It’s an supportive gesture, and it tugs at your heart strings. You’d felt lonely all day, seeing memories of your friend at every turn. You hope wherever Sonny is, he’s onto something real. “One drink. We can remember her fondly and help you out. You don’t have to do this alone.”

You hesitate again and she rolls her eyes, springing up beside you, hair bouncing.

“Don’t make me carry you.”

It still feels like a _bad idea_ from the second you snuggle into your jacket, letting her and Ellen push at your hips towards the backdoor. The knowledge of how _bad_ of an _idea_ it is lingers up until the moment you’re standing in front of your coworker’s favorite boozy spot -- _Gianni’s_. A few of your other coworkers have joined the party, flying through the entrance: because it’s a second home. It’s a place of peace. But you know the truth now, feet stuck like their glued at the wooden front door. Women went in and died the next day.

 _He could be here, right now_. You’re not sure if it’s your own conscious, or someone else’s warning sign. _You could remember him_.

It hits you like a freight train. Flashes of conversation over darts, a round of pool. You’d been so _wasted_ that night, free feeling after thinking you’d destroyed Moore’s trial. If only you knew at the time what was about to happen, you know you would have done anything and everything in your power differently just to escape the outcome. But now you just remember laughing, and dancing. You couldn’t change the past. 

But the future?

“Hey . . .” Ellen pops the door open with the point of her shoe, thumb jutting behind her head. “. . . you comin’ in here or are you just gonna stay there and freeze?”

You hadn’t even noticed the frost, little snow flurries gathering on your coat. With the sunset bleeding behind city walls, decorating the streets in a lush orange, the icy temperature of night descends over Manhattan like a fog. The chill cracks through your silent contemplation, and you stuff the voice screaming _bad idea_ in the back of your mind back into a box.

“Yes. But I’m not drinking.” 

You stay true to your word as your night crew spreads out like always, wanting a clear head to intake the scene around you. Bar lights twinkle and burn neon blue while a rock and roll ballad you don’t recognize peels off of the walls, smelling of liquor and microwavable dive bar treats. You watch your male coworkers like a hawk, Barba’s reminder to be _mindful_ giving a purpose to your time at _Gianni’s._ The female waitresses running a dart game don’t know that someone here, someone they _know_ , could be the reason Vivian wasn’t with you to begin with. You feel like their silent protector; this would never happen again on your watch.

You're starting to think Mia was using you just a bit to get drunk with friends, which wasn’t so much as a surprise. Touching on her growing alcoholism wasn’t on your to-do list today, but you’d remember this night for a different conversation. Ellen stays by your side, but argues with her newly divorced hubby over the cellphone at her ear for the first hour you’re there. Richard, Thomas and Louis are the rowdiest after everyone had been given a green tea shot -- one that you’d dumped right into someone else’s glass instead -- and toast to your departed friend’s memory.

By 8, Ellen takes a taxi, red in the face and fed up with whatever was happening at home. The boys had rolled into the trafficless front street to roll a blunt and a pair of brothers at the claw machine continue to glance in your direction since you sit by yourself at the bar. You sour your expression and pray they don’t make their way to you. 

Your phone might as well be abandoned. You called Dominick twice to no reply, so you can only assume he’s on the hunt for whatever lead Barba hinted about at _Better Batter._ The thought to go home hits you right about the same time you remember the folders in your bag. 

Grabbing them carefully like they may detonate in your lap, you take a discarded bar napkin and wipe down the sticky counter, before opening the red, bold documents across the table. You find a pen easy enough, and decide to get this over with as fast as possible. Whatever Dominick had to tell you would probably be heard best if you were home to receive it. Not to mention he could never know you’d come here.

You scribble your signature at every small, highlighter yellow tabby Rafael marked out for you, flipping page to page. You’re not even sure what you’re signing for, unfamiliar and intimidating vocabulary a little hard to follow. But Vivian’s mother could turn up tomorrow hoping to see her daughter, Moore’s trial needed to be completed -- so you just go for it, trusting that Barba wouldn’t bamboozle you legally.

You’ve only got a few sheets left when someone steps in front of you.

“Hi.” You look up to the familiar bartender on duty. You remember him from multiple evenings sitting right where you are now. He’s in a Mets cap and tight apron, and his coworker breezes by, shaking a martini on the rocks obnoxiously. The interruption comes with a gift -- he sits a clear shot glass in front of you and a bottle of labelless tequila beside it, pointing just over your shoulder. “Sorry to interrupt. Just letting you know those gentlemen want to buy you a drink.”

You follow the direction of his extended hand, and just as you expected, the two brothers look your way at having your attention. In another life you’d be flattered, but you don’t trust anyone; they’re both tall, one blonde and one brunette. It’s not a combination of traits you like when you don’t know who you’re up against, so you turn back to the server and frown.

“You can tell them thanks, but I’m not interested.” You go to look back at your work, yet his coworker laughs, catching your attention.

“That’s a first. I’m pretty sure I’ve scraped you and the rest of the _Better Batter_ staff off the floor before.” He’s not the man you’d seen at your apartment, with soft, dark skin and just about your height, but that doesn’t put him in the clear. You know you and your friends had spent many nights a week at this stupid bar, so you’re not shocked that he knows who you are. But you don’t know who he is. “Where’s that spunky one? She always wants to do shots.”

“She died.” It’s the first time you’ve said it, and you nearly choke as the words come out. The last week you’d tried to stomach the truth, but hearing it come from your own mouth sullens your outlook completely. You feel cold and hurt. He stops shaking the liquor and sets it against the counter. 

“I’m sorry, I-I didn’t know.” He seems genuinely floored, biting at his lip. 

“That’s why they’re here.” You frown at the other bartender after catching him nosily peeking at your what it was you were signing. Then he sighs out, tilting the pour. You’d said no, but he fills the shot up for you anyways. “Dude, don’t you watch the news? Or talk to your guests?”

“No.” You’re starting to get agitated, but the look on your face must be enough indication that you were done with this conversation. It had already stirred something nasty and decaying in your chest, so he goes back to shaking his martini and serving it to a woman in a thin pink dress with an olive and onion on top.

“ _I_ watch the news. Vivian was a nice girl so I’m sorry for your loss.” The bartender in the Mets cap slides the shot your way, patting down a rag across his chest. “We can say this one’s on us. They paid for it, and I’ll just keep the cash.”

You’re surprised he’s openly stealing in front of you, but he’s offering and you’d watched him pour it, so there was no harm. It tastes like nail polish and goes down just as terribly as every shot you’ve ever taken ever has, worse with no chaser and no one around to suffer with you when he walks away. But you had work to do, and they’d already wasted your time. One glance at your empty of updates phone screen reads close to 10.

Focusing back on the body identification form before you, once again you’re lost in a wave of unfamiliar jargon. It seems like French, little black words mocking how little you know about what you were signing over. Two to three pages are scribbled off when your hand twitches a little, pen dropping from your fingers. 

When you reach across the bar to pick it up you realize what’s happening. The stretch reveals how slowly time had started moving as you’d studied the documents, corner edges of your vision pulsing with your heart. Something wasn’t right -- every blink feels like an eternity, and your stomach starts curdle like you were going to be sick. So you look up for help, but there’s no one around to meet your eyes; the sorrowful bartender clears discarded beer cans from a high top while the other mops up a spilled daiquiri at the end of the bar, pulling the sports cap off to swipe sweat from his forehead. Underneath the orange hat is a head of blonde hairs, and --

It’s the man for your apartment.

Everything is happening at once and you feel like you can’t breathe. You’re starting to feel like you’re stuffed with fuzz, pulse beating against your ribcage as you feel in your pockets clumsily for your phone. You had to make a call. The bartender was the man Vivian had slept with, you’re sure of it, as you try to remember the passcode to your phone. But when had you forgotten? And who were you calling?

It clatters to the floor when your hands don’t connect to your brain, catching his attention. The room feels like it’s stretching, or maybe bending, and you clutch your rolling tummy when he tilts his head to watch you start to fall apart on the stool. You barely know left from right, but you use all your mental energy to snatch the pen back from where it had rolled away with grabby, loose palms. 

You try to stand up on the two wobbling feet because because he abandoned his mop and you’re going to try to make a run for it -- but not before you try to write on the red folder. It looks like chicken scratch, and you’re not sure if you wrote actual words before you’re slipping off the edge completely. Sheets and belongings scatter about in every direction, and when your head pings off the ground, he’s leaning over you.

“Woah, _woah_ . . . what happened?” You hear someone else’s voice and see the second bartender try to help you out too, but all you can look at is _him_. He’s got blue eyes, haunting and dominating your stare down, but they look nothing like Dominick’s. They’re glossy and shaking, and you want to gargle and spit on him, but your mouth is dry, tongue lax and spouting nonsense phrases as whatever you’d consumed eats at your ability to think.

“Had too much to drink, I guess.” If you could run away you would, because he’s lying and you want the feeling of being in a Tilt-a-Whirl to stop. But your lips are buzzing and all that comes out it a sickly groan, puffs of air hitting his chest as he stands you back up. You jab him, all elbows, _struggling_ because your life depends on it. But he’s strong enough the pinches on your arms aches. 

“Just call her a taxi, Chris.” The other bartender is rolling his eyes from where you can see him at your garbling, but the way the man who holds you has you positioned, you’re pliable and slung like you’re wounded at his side. He smells like menthol cigarettes and spiked cologne. Chris. A _monster._

“Like this?” He’s already scooting you step by step. “Do you know your address, hun?”

You say something explicit and harsh that comes out sounding like a foreign language, crunching on his toes with all of your weight, but your eyes are closed and he shoves you off with his own big boot. It hurts and you roll your ankle, giving him even more reason to keep stuffing you against his chest like a life support.

“You know what, she’s lucky we’re friends and I know where her apartment complex is. I’m gonna use that favor you owe me for not telling Tony where _you_ were last Tuesday when you called off if you cover for me so I can take her home; girl’s had a rough night.” 

“You’re such a gentlemen.” His coworker says sarcastically, grabbing your vibrating cellphone from the floor and handing it over. You try to reach for it, but he pockets it far too quickly than your slumping body can react, forcing you to take another step. “But just remember you used this favor up next time we’re playing duos on poker night — wait, doesn’t she need these too?”

A flurry of red. The folders. Your note.

 _Don’t give it to him._ If you could say it out loud you would, but by the time he’s collecting them with one hand too that’s the last you see of the second bartender. You resist until your muscles are burning, shoved through the back door of the sports pub and into the night what feels like only seconds after you’d been in the bar. 

The air helps, if just for a moment. There’s no one on the back street besides a scurrying rat and the shine of the moon. You can see the blur _Better Batter’s_ pink neon street sign makes above a large, wooden fence. It flickers with the incoming snowstorm blanketing the tri-state area, stinging your exposed skin. You’ve got just enough sense to dig a hand into your pockets again as the smell of old beer kegs and rotting bar food in the December frost energizes shaking palms.

The split second choice to light the small, pink taser sent from your mother must take longer than you think. You reel around to plunge it violently against his side, but he must see you coming when it gears up and crackles blue electricity a hair's breadth away from his guts. He shoves you back -- you’d missed.

His hand folds over your wrist so tightly you fear for the integrity of the bone, dragging you back with momentum and annoyance, and your knees crumble right as his other fist juts out and shatters your nose on impact. You’re unconscious before you hit the ground, blood spurting down your jaw, staining the shirt and coat and old pavement through your hair.

He swears out loud, because he’s been so very careful; the last four hadn’t been able to keep resisting the Rohypnol for as long, and now you’d paved the street in tiny, wet droplets of evidence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ohhhhhhhhh i can't believe we're finally here. so who had their money on the bartender?????? i'm pretty sure i mentioned him every time readerchan was at gianni's, so feel free to detail dive uwuuuuu. also if i had to recommend you ONE SONG for this fic, it's the wolf by siames. you're welcome
> 
> yall said barba x intern!reader so i am but a humble servant of the people. i'll work on getting it ready for the bagelverse. in other news the next chapter will be a little bit more carisi!based since i focused on *-your situation-* first. wonder where he is right now ..... hmm. get ready to FINALLLLLLLYYYYY get some answers.
> 
> as always, until next time, and with love,  
> bagels


	12. Salmon & Steak

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The temperature in Manhattan drops.
> 
> or, you do everything you can to stay alive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi ya'll! first and foremost thank u so much for reading and leaving wonderful reviews on this fic!!! it's been so much fun to world build and i'm so honored to hear people like readerchan and all the juicy plot bunnies. we got mostly ACTION and STORY in this one. 
> 
> this one took a little bit of time for a lots of reasons, which i'll go further into at the end of this chapter, but without further ado, i know you wanna know what happens next sooo...
> 
> enjoy!!!!

* * *

**GIANNI’S SPORTS PUB  
** **6318 WESTON ROAD  
** **MANHATTAN, NEW YORK  
** **WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 22ND**

* * *

“-- hold on, alright, wait a second — what do you mean: ‘ _she’s missing_ ’?”

“I _mean_ ,” Dominick smothers a clammy palm down his face, stuffing himself back into the previously musty and heated interior of his car. The keys jingle and the engine roars to life, audacious enough Olivia can hear it purr over the receiver as he mounts the cellphone on the dashboard. It almost drowns out the Detective when he says: “it’s one in the mornin’ and she’s not _here_.”

“Okay . . . let’s take it a step at a time. Don’t panic yet before we know what’s going on.” He rolls his eyes gravely and starts reversing in the same movement, snow and gravel crunching beneath rubber tires. He’d been a _bit_ suspicious when he was sent to your polite voicemail a couple hours ago while trying to reach you at the station -- right around when the snowstorm hit Manhattan at 10. Amanda had smiled and told him not to worry while she filled a pipping hot decaf thermos up to the brim, because they’d done a good job today. 

But nothing compared to the sudden and sweltering realization you wouldn’t be coming to the door. 

_Then_ he called Olivia.

“Where are you — where is here?”

“I was at her apartment, but I’m leavin’ it right now.” In fact he’s already in the other direction completely, considering tossing on the light bar and booking it. But the Sergeant has a good point; one step at a time. Where was he planning on going anyways? There are few places else you could be, but you could be at them and be just fine, so he holds off the consternation and tries to retain his cool.

He doesn’t know he’d caught his boss just nestling in her pajamas with an Italian red blend in front of the tv and a snoozing Noah on her lap, but across the city she’s already delicately tucking him in on the couch cushions and getting up to change. She can hear the muffled unsteadiness in the way he talks, like he’s trying not to ignite and explode. False alarm or not, it was better to be safe and ready to go.

“And you’re _sure_ she wasn’t home?” 

“I’m sure.” You tend to keep the free cable running when you’re lounging about. He’d noticed in the first few times he’d been over, hearing it through the cracks of the front door — at the time he had guessed it was because you liked to fill the silence with noise, but he hadn’t asked, so it remains a mystery. Tonight, your place was eerily silent from the doormat anyways, alerting him to the increasingly growing problem.

“I’m assuming that means she’s not at your apartment either?” 

“I went home to change an’ pack a bag and she wasn’t there. Locked up behind me, Sarg . . .” The iridescent red light comes quicker than he wants, brakes scuffing across wet roads as he halts upfront on the line and thinks. If you weren’t home, or at _his_ apartment, the city was large but you knew a handful of people who could direct him on the right way. “ . . . she has a friend we can try; we questioned him and his boyfriend on Thursday, but, _uh_ — don’t think I have his number. I betcha someone at the office can get it though.”

“Focus on driving. I’ll send out a text, but I need a name.” He could hug her, honestly, truly crush her to his chest from a little bit of relief coming from getting assistance. His hands are like paws at the wheel while he tries to stuff all his emotions down — deep, deep down — until he knew what he was up against. It’s always like this: heart too big for his chest. Last week he agonized over your every move with the only intention of making sure you were okay, and now his exact fear threatens to come true. 

The light blinks green and the Toyota behind him creeps around the stall because he hasn’t moved with it. Dominick waits patiently for him to pass, following bumper to bumper as the civilian slows to the limit just in case. This only fuels his irritation, blazing around the next time the street becomes a two lane, big flurries of snow catching on his wipers. The late time helps with little traffic, and the weather. But he’s still not sure where he’s going. 

“. . . the name, Carisi.”

“Sorry -- _driving_ \-- it’s Mathew something. Willicks or Wilson — I — I’m not sure.” He gruffly exhales on call as she types, little dots clicking away in a grating pattern over the speaker. The night crew shouldn’t be too long on results, and by the time he’s rolling over litter and piling snow in a low barring parking garage, she has the information he needs to pull over. 

Carisi hangs up with her immediately, hastily promising to call back as soon as he has an answer. Olivia looks for her snow boots in the down time. 

“ . . . hello?” The voice on the other end sounds exhausted on the third ring, sinking his hopes like a hole in one. He’d probably woken your friend, leaving a small room of chance that you’re with him. 

“Hey, it’s uh -- Dominick. Er, Carisi.” He’s beat this kid at billiards twice now, so he’d better remember who he is without preamble. “My girlfriend isn’t with ya’, is she?”

“Uh . . . no.” 

The back of his skull hits the headrest in defeat, knee bouncing up and down against the leather steering wheel as he tries to think where you would be next. _Better Batter_ was closed by now, but the only other two options he can come up with is that you’d gone out with coworkers or you’d gone back to Buffalo early. Neither seemed like logical options, since he severely hoped you would let him know that you were going away before leaving — and if you were on the town with friends, well.

That was certainly going to be a different argument.

“Why? Is everything okay?”

“No.” Sonny admits, revving the Chevy to life again. The hazard lights flicker with the battery. “Did ya’ talk to her today, at all?” 

“No.” The speaker crackles as Matt rouses fully on the other side. “Have you?”

“No.” It sounds like an echo as the conversation folds out between them, choppy and fast. He slowly peels around a jaywalker, scurrying at the sight of police with a bottle tucked under his shirt. He can’t even focus on it; you’d been half awake when he’d left at the sign of daybreak, taking up nearly all the space left in the cozy bed from his absence, with no mention of your plans for the day besides the shift he knew you had to work. He should have asked. “She’s not at her place and her phone is goin’ to voicemail this late, so I’m gettin’ a little worried over here.”

“I’m sure, I am too — _Javiar_ — wake up — hey, Sonny; it’s Sonny, right?”

“Yes . . .” 

“I’ll call a few of her coworkers; see if they’re just out . . . somewhere.” There’s a pause, and it’s long enough for Carisi to que the red and blue light bar on the roof. He knows where he’s going to try _first_ , preparing to take a left shaped u-turn. “Let me know when you find her. But I’m sure she’s . . . she’s not going to get herself into something she can’t handle.”

He _knows_ this. Dominick knows the concrete foundation underneath your skin, knows that you can deal defense and handle some ache physically, and at the soul. He’s just got a career’s worth of some god awful cases with just as terrible endings already under his belt, leaving no room for being wrong this time. Not with you.

“Call _this_ number if you get word, okay?” His phone is lighting up with an incoming dial, so he bails out and answers blindly, still focused on avoiding black ice and potholes on the streets. He’s got about 20 minutes until he’s at _Gianni’s_ , even at a racetrack speed. “Carisi, SVU.”

“It’s Benson. Anything?”

“No.” He replies. “She hasn’t talked to them either. I know she worked this morning, but she’d be out by 5, maybe 6 at latest.”

“Okay, that leaves a few hours worth of space where she could have gone somewhere -- where are you now?” Olivia is all bundled up, tucking her keys, because she had a _feeling_. Some instincts come with dedicating your life to the force, and with how connected you were to the serial murders, making sure you were safe and sound was a priority and an actual police matter. 

“On 23rd aboutta exit.” He talks somewhat quietly, which offsets her for just a moment by the kitchen sink. The anxiety bleeds between them in the lengthy pause he takes, because she knows where those street signs lead, dowsing his normal audacious tone. “I’m gonna try _Gianni’s_.” 

“Do you really think she’d go there?” It might be disbelief he hears, but it makes sense: with what happened to Vivian Miller, you’d said on multiple occasions with their witness that you’d not return to the sports pub. A couple mornings ago he’d nearly begged over soft kisses in your kitchen to avoid going anywhere, and you’d agreed while ruffling out his hair. 

“I don’t think so, but . . .” But he feels what Olivia feels too. Like a needle balancing so close to piercing a balloon, something was coming he would dread. You were forced into a rollercoaster case from the humble origins, and he’d hoped Vivian was the final drop -- but the arctic gusts of wind whistles off the windows of the Charger peeling through low volume city life, and he’s not so sure. 

“Okay.” She says that a lot, and things weren’t okay, but he knows she’s trying to be the one level headed right now. After all, he’s spouting a headache from lack of sustenance riding a busy day and the wave of anxiety from not knowing your whereabouts, so it can’t be helping his demeanor. 

The morning had begun on a chase for information: when Mike had followed up on _Hogs Chop & Shop’s _ alibi’s for the second time, he had asked for the store clerk he’d spoken to before by the name of Tom, only to find there wasn’t an employee with that name at all. It had been the first sign of a squeak in the air tight line of excuses from every other person they’d questioned, so he and Dodds had traveled out to the deli to scout out themselves. He was starting to like the guy.

He remembers thinking he’d come back to _Hog’s_ some day, and by noon it had reeked of cold meat and lingering cigar smoke past the front door. He’d even considered swinging into _Better Batter_ to see you if they had time, but the owner was a short and squat Italian man who’d refused to comply and hand over the one and only security tape out back for deliveries. So Dominick had met Barba in his office interrupting an afternoon lunch hour, not backing down in the barter for a warrant they should’ve had two months ago. 

“What do you need? I can meet you there but I’ll be a bit behind; I’ll have to ring Lucy.” He’s got 10 minutes himself at the most, familiar street signs reflecting bright from red and blue swirling lights. “I think Rollins is the closest, but she’s not supposed to be doing any field work, so we’ll wait to find out where we’re at before calling the whole team in.”

“Thanks, Liv.” He says sincerely, forehead wrinkling as he thinks. “As for what I need . . . I just need to find out where she is. It could be nothing. But --”

“-- I get it. You’re wrong for being worried, all details involved. I’ll see you within the hour.” 

The babysitter arrives early, sleepy but happy to take the snoring toddler off Olivia’s hands, allowing the Sergeant extra allotted time she didn’t previously think she had to get to _Gianni’s_. On the ride she makes sure she has the right number and tries to call you too, hearing the voicemail twice before giving up. 

She hopes for both your sake and Carisi’s that you were in a safe place and this was all for nothing, but that last shred tears apart when she opens the door to the pub with tingling, frozen fingers and spots Dominick in heated argument with a server at the bar. Her partner appears callous and quite unamused, so Olivia’s boot heels clack against the sticky floorboards on approach, ears focused as she tries to pick up on what was in debate. 

“ . . . — an’ you just _let_ them _go_?” Dominick’s jaw is hard and jagged. He’s got the picture of you in Central Park zoomed in and open in his hand, knuckle white grip around the plastic and glass. Benson squeezes his shoulder, going as far to pull him back just a bit, because he’a a little tinged red around the edges like he might just start yelling. The bartender looks uncomfortable. 

“What’s happening here?”

“— _sorry_ , okay, but it’s not that big a deal. It’s not like he’d do anything, bud; Chris is a good guy — ”

“This is Peter Kirkland. He says she was here.” The officers ignore the wilting apology, and Carisi nods once, in the direction of the trembling wait staff. “Came with some coworkers — now, when you said ‘ _she got sick_ ’, whaddya mean?”

“Sorry, who’s Chris?” Olivia outranks him, and her question is a little more important, so Dominick bites on the flesh of his tongue instead of lashing out over being dismissed. She still has a death grip on his bicep, all fingerpads and muscle, refusing to let him do anything unprofessional in light of this _bad_ news. It makes the toes in his socks curl. 

“Chris Fallon; he’s the other bartender. Might be short for Christian or Christopher, but I’m not sure -- forgot to ask, and then it was too late, ya’ know. I could check the --”

“-- where is he?” She turns as if to look, but Carisi takes a big enough breath to steady his anger that it stops her hunting.

“ _Apparently_ she was indisposed and _Chris_ offered to take her home.” His finger points at the bartender. “But she’s _not_ home, so where can we find Mr. Fallon?”

“How should I know?” Peter frowns, growing as less and less polite as they were. “He said he knew where she lived and that they’re friends and that’s it. You’ve been in here before . . . I know _you’re_ her boyfriend, right? Don’t you know him?” 

“He’s certainly no friend a’mine, that’s for damn sure.” Carisi snaps back, just like that, a caged animal ripping through iron bars. “I want a number; _now_ \--”

“-- what my partner here means to say,” Olivia speaks over Dominick again, so with a mild flourish, he shakes her hand off of him enough that she knows he’s pissed. He a professional and he’s damn good at his job, which means he has to stay calm and can’t start cursing. Yet every second that passes where he doesn’t know where you are makes him just a little lightheaded, “is that we’re looking for the two of them, and it’s _extremely_ urgent. Is there a number we can call to get a hold of him?”

“Why?” Peter winces, feeling around in his pockets for his cellphone. “Is he in some sort of trouble?”

“ -- gonna be --” Carisi mutters.

“Not yet.” Olivia shoots Dominick a quick look that says ‘DON’T’, so he waits it out. “What can you tell me about Chris, Peter?”

“Uh,” he looks up from his scrolling phone screen, propping it off in one hand. Sonny would feel no remorse grabbing it and doing it himself if it wouldn’t cost his professionalism, “not much, I guess. Like I said earlier: he’s a nice guy. Good teammate, big flirt for big tips, never misses a shift. We sometimes play cards together with the guys from McDonalds. I don’t know. Work together during the week usually, but he has a second job so I don’t see much of him.”

“Do ya’ at least know what his second job is?” Barks Carisi, taking the phone when it’s got an unfamiliar number waiting to be dialed. Mashing his thumb against the screen, he starts the call and turns his head to hear better against the aggravatingly loud speakers nearby. “ . . . or where he lives? Or are ya’ just silently playing thumb war at poker night?”

“We’re not that close, so no.” Peter crosses his arms over his chest, eyebrows ruffling together as he horripilates. Dominick gets the automated voicemail and pinches the bridge of his nose, dialing back _again_ . He’d call this number a hundred thousand times if that’s what it took for someone to pick up the other end. “Well I mean, I do know where he works -- _Hog’s_ , just around the corner. He’s a butcher so I think he lives nearby so he can --”

Carisi and Benson stop. There’s a moment where they both start the same thought, moving in tandem, expressions jolting as they look at each other. Dominick can’t hear the dial tone over buzzing ears because a handful of questions seem to get answered at once. He can see the puzzle pieces just out of his vision slotting into place: the fake name at the chophouse, precision based murders, the corner building across from _Better Batter_ and _Gianni’s_. This person was a local. It was someone Vivian knew well enough to take home. 

An alibi of a bartender with a second job.

“Liv . . . ” He starts weakly, pulse hammering as he tries to find the words to explain what he’s just put together -- a theory that makes his chest hurt because he knows it’s true. But she’s already got her walkie talkie in her hand, clicking the repeater. It’s an ear breaking noise in contrast to a song change, catching the attention of a few bar guests.

“This is Sergeant Olivia Benson with the Manhattan Precinct. I’m requesting immediate backup at . . . give me that menu -- 6. . . _6138_ Weston Road Manhattan New York -- potential missing persons -- ”

“Missing persons? Is he not answering?” Peter’s eyebrow raises, studying the way the two cops in front of him have changed. The tall, blonde one is still scowling, in a burly, brown leather coat, dark blue long sleeve buttoned up underneath. He turns on his heels and ignores the question as he tries the number repeatedly, though his hands shake a little as he puts the phone back to his ear. The Sergeant is feeling around her silky green overcoat pockets for her own phone, retrieving it to call in personal firepower. 

Half the bar had heard her walkie talkie ring by now as first responders reply, those closest to the trio already eavesdropping.

“Peter, we’re going to need you to call your boss.” She says delicately but direct, turning to face the rest of the crowd. “And no one leaves until we have an idea of where they’re headed.”

A man by the well scoffs in the silence of chatter that takes over the bar, hopping down from his stool.

“I’m not getting stuck here --”

“Sit _down_ .” Carisi orders loudly, tilting his head. “Did ya’ _not_ hear what she just said?”

No one is happy to be locked down at this hour, but the backup Olivia signalled for makes it to _Gianni’s_ within 30 minutes, creating a near _stifling_ atmosphere in heater fog. Patrons all sit down by a separate patrol officers and are asked the same questions. A forensics team starts looking around the property, swabs and glossy flashlights. The music had been cut, bringing drunken voices down to talking volume. 

It’s a relief for the Detective’s trying to focus at 2 in the morning. 

By 3, Dominick is out back of the pub, on the phone with someone in IT about the videotapes they’d sent off from _Gianni’s_. Peter approaches him, vibrating with the cold, kicking around a thick layer of snow blanketing the pavement. Cop car lights beam off the windows, illuminating the night in fire red and deep hue blues. One big black SUV blocks off the front entrance.

“Hey -- she left these behind, when she fell. I don’t know if they’re important, but I put them away for the next time she planned on comin’ in’; ya’ know, since she’s always been a regular and what not, but . . .” 

The guy at the home office is saying something important about sending over the clip they’re looking for when Peter says it, so Dominick almost doesn’t pay attention. But the call ends, so he braves the jagged, frozen feeling in his gut and takes the red folder he’s being offered. The weather was as unforgiving as the circumstances, but at this point he welcomes the whipping wind. It was keeping his mind awake out here, where inside was just a bit too cozy for riding a close to near 24 hour day.

He’s not sure what it is at first, so he peels it open and flickers through the scuffed up pages of legal paraphernalia. He see’s Barba perfectly stamped signature, and your dollar pen signature right after it, becoming more and more sloppy as the pages near the end. He closes it up with an exhale and goes to speak sharply, but something catches his attention on the back -- it looks like a child had written it, big letters and shapely edges.

**_B A RT E n_ **

“She knows.” He rubs a hand down his jaw to shake away the ghosts that linger nearby. The last hour had sucked the good graces out of him, as everyone in the department fights the clock to get the fastest information on Christopher Fallon. He’d have the details of this man’s life in his mind for the rest of his life: originally from Albany, New York. Son to two normal middle-aged retirees upstate, no record. He’d graduated from Cornell in culinary arts, and his last known address was an empty attempt at finding _you_ ; Tutuola and Dodds already banged down the door across the city and found a casual, clean and vacant home.

Olivia had left him here in charge of preserving the crime scene while she undergoes breaking down the doors of _Hog’s_. He reasons it’s for the best, no matter how bad he wants to be everywhere at once. 

The forensics team had stumbled across a dewy puddle of water not completely frozen over, one that shimmered swirls of copper under their bright lights. After testing they’d confirmed traces of blood, and the small, pink taser they’d found beneath the dumpster behind old bar trash and a dying rat had solidified the suspicion you were in serious trouble. A little, yellow evidence marker sits beside the discarded weapon, flooded with LED flash lights for the team to do their job. 

His teeth grit thinking about it, jaw popping at the force.

You’d put up a good fight. One of the video clips that’s delivered straight to his email with a _wush_ shows as much. 

But it hadn’t been enough, and he has to click away when a blonde stranger’s fist collides with your face just off frame. He's not sure he can watch it now, regardless of the need for evidence. There’s another -- from _Hog’s_ , but it wasn’t from today. They’d got the warrant and a team had already been running back the clock since 6, but the reveal couldn’t have worse timing: he sends out the video of Vivian Miller’s unconscious body dropping into the trunk of a delivery van to Benson in the next blink. He hopes she’s got the iron padlocks and bars pulled apart by now. If there was _any_ time for exigent circumstances, this would be it.

Peter isn’t sure what to say as the Detective broods, padding from foot to foot. Carisi puts a hand to his chin and _thinks._ And _hurts_. You could be anywhere in New York by now. He knows you’re wounded, and with a man with no hesitation to kill, and he’s praying hard with his eyes closed because it’s all that’s left to do. His mouth makes little moves but no words come out.

“Hey . . . ” Amanda’s voice finds him from behind. Peter awkwardly shuffles out of the way for her, all round and rosy in the street lights. Her warm hand trails his shoulder once, holding on tight. “. . . you doin’ okay?”

“No.” He grits, eyes still shut. “Don’t say anything. I’m countin’.”

“Counting . . . what?” Her eyebrows raise.

“How long it’s been. How much time we have.”

His partner’s stomach rolls for him. She can’t really imagine what he’s feeling -- whatever it is, he’s hiding it better than expected, at least. The color in his face is only because of the intense December chill, and he sways from one foot to the other to keep active. But in opposition to how they quake in front of him, he’s like stone. 

“We’re going to find them, okay? We’re already moving in the right direction.” 

She doesn’t blame him for not saying anything back. He just turns his back and goes towards the door.

* * *

**GOATHEAD BAY PIERS  
** **OCEAN AVENUE E  
** **BROOKLYN, NEW YORK  
** **WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 22ND**

* * *

You’ve been awake for a few minutes now, but you refuse to give into the temptation to move a muscle. Instead, you try to understand what’s happening in your surroundings and free your foggy vision. 

The van is stinky, and it shakes back and forth as he takes a winding, long road. Orange street lamps become far and less few, every so often flooding the backseat you’re slung across. And it’s cold; the heaters don’t reach you so far back. Everything is just a little blurry still and the center of your face feels like hot coals; nose very broken, bruising and blood crusted along the flush of your face. Whatever he’d laced your shot with still lingers, making every blink feel like an effort in the starry, early morning. 

You can feel silver duct tape around your wrists, sticky and tight. You could break out of this with some effort, but you’re not sure you have the strength. Eyes rolling to the right, you dare to glance at the driver and passenger seat. Chris is alone, focused on the road in front of him, signalling his blinker at a stop sign. Above him, you spy the sun shield has a pair of dangling keys and a pamphlet sticking out and squished up -- _Hog’s Chop & Shop. _

That would explain the smell.

Close to the reek of old food, it lingers meat and fish over your shoulder. The clues take a minute to click, nothing but silence to greet your realizations. You sigh out weakly when your brain catches up. So he was a butcher. It would make sense -- the little meat market shop never had any friendly vibes; attracting weird clientele and unsuspecting tourism. It would explain the other women, the pictures you’d seen on the stand. The way they died.

It would explain the _smell_.

“Welcome back to the land of the living, girlfriend.” He says from the front seat. You freeze up when you realize he must see your eyes open in the rear view mirror, and ripping off the bandaid, you meet his stare in the reflection. He’s smiling with clean white teeth, head cocked to the side, and when he talks it’s like he’s conversing with a friend. 

You hate everything about him. 

“Sorry about your nose, but you almost got me. It’s a shame, though; I wasn’t planning on touching your pretty face that much.”

“Do you think . . . t-think this is funny?” Your head hurts as you slur, vibrations panging off of broken cartilage.

“Of course.” He breaks the eye contact to look back at the pavement. You see more trees outside more than anything else, a lack of skyscrapers, which narrows down where you’re headed. You’re not sure how much time has passed in your exhaustion, but the normal sounds of the rampaging city don’t reach your pulsing ears. “I mean, it was one thing when it was picking up women from the side of the road, but I did this right under the nose of the police. _Five times_.”

“I’m . . . I’m not dead yet.” You spit, really _spit_ , all blood and saliva, finding the energy to try and sit up. The world spins about like you’ve just stepped off a carousel, and you fear you might pass back out, but he laughs, brushing a hand through his hair. In another life you’d call him handsome, but in this life you’re willing to rip every hair off of his head if it means you’ll make it through the night. It gives you the strength to wobble upright.

“You’re right, you’re right; not yet — but I like the energy. Keep it up.” Eyes dart left and right, head rolling minutely against the back of the seats. The doors unlock from the front cabin, meaning the option to tuck and roll was out of the question. You’re considering launching yourself into the front seat and jamming the gears with your body weight when he hits a mean pot hole, jostling you back down the way you’d come. 

Your muscles just weren’t back to normal yet, frustrating you beyond comprehension.

“Where . . . where are we going?” You use your bound hands to force the hair out of your face.

“Why would I tell you that?” Chuckles Chris, and you roll your eyes in the darkness. 

“Why me?”

That question stops his jubilation. There’s a moment where he’s just thinking, picking the right words to drive a knife through your chest. 

“I remember when I first met Vivian.” Your body shakes at her name coming from _his_ mouth, but he doesn’t see it, too lost in his own memories. “She was so pretty, and funny, and _smart_ . Maybe if we had met sooner. But, well, _you know_. Anyways, I was sure the Detectives had seen me enough times, there would be too much DNA. Something.”

You hold your breath.

“But when nothing happened, _again_ , it was like -- I thought to myself -- what’s _another_ , right? I wouldn’t have even looked your way, either, if it wasn’t just so _easy._ How many times did you and your friend stumble in and out of the bar without even learning my name? How many times did the police ask me questions? All I had to do was mention _one guy_ in a red hat and suddenly no one looked my way for months. He made it easy, though. It’s simple thinking to just blame someone who can’t tell right from left; someone who is almost at the bar as much as _me_ —”

“You’re . . . _sick_.” You hiss out, struggling to sit back again. So he framed Moore in November. This doesn’t come as a big surprise; or maybe it was the numbing rush of clarity as he happily tells you how he’d done it. It seems corny — like an evil villain in a fairytale boasting his plot before the protagonist. But you know the truth: he wasn’t planning on keeping you alive long enough to tell it to anyone else. 

He takes brisk left turn onto a path with something that sounds like loose gravel or shells, blinker the only sound as he chooses to ignore what you’ve said. You don’t really know anything about this man, but you would fight in every way you have to get free. You’re already twisting your wrists in the duct tape, feeling the burn and hair loss that comes from the strain.

“This doesn’t have to be the end.” Your voice has steadied, giving you a little confidence. An echo of your stepdad’s advice lingers, telling you to try and reason your way out of a hostage situation. Negotiations weren’t normally the forte of law enforcement, not with lives at stake, but you had no badge. You weren’t a cop. With so little options left, you’d talk until you couldn’t anymore. “If you let me go, you’ll have time to get away before they come for you.”

“And what makes you think they’re going to find us?” The vehicle hums as he decelerates. You felt confident in the fact Sonny would know something was wrong by now, that the tides of change were coming, so your forceful moving motive was just focusing on survival. 

Hands shakily drop down to your feet while he’s distracted in finding parking and wiggle a shoe between your bound wrists, applying firm and fast pressure — wilting the tape to a thin but still unbroken bound with how hard you struggle. You’ve just about got it, too, but the sound of a rip alerts him that you’re up to something; and so he hits the brakes again, with purpose, and you face first into the seat. 

It sears hot on impact, of course, since he’d already broken the bone once. You cry out and sit back, tape forgotten completely, shielding your swollen and bleeding nose once _again_. You swallow the flavor of copper coins as he parks, laughter spouting from the front cabin.

By the time you’ve stalled the blood flow, he’s cracking the door beside you open. You scoot across the leather far away from his reaching, meaty hands, but you’re bound, and he easily snags onto your ankle. Ripping you back his way, you start to scream — a high pitched, crack of a noise in the break of morning. But it’s only a moment, before he’s clambered in, knees pressing you down into the seats and a sweaty, hairy hand over your jaw. 

The squeeze aches, and he smears your own blood across your jaw, but you wail beneath the flesh. 

“Stop screaming, will you?” He frowns. “Do you always make this much noise?”

The other hand reaches underneath his leather jacket and —

You stop writhing, every muscle tight and waiting. He’s drawn a weapon: steel and metal, black as rock. It’s a small pistol; you’re not sure of the specs, even with some minor knowledge in firearms. But it’s a death threat nonetheless, and he hesitates the gun in the air between you. So you wait for the demands. 

“We’re going to start walking. You’re not going to make any noise.” 

Your eyes narrow, half a mind to bite the meat of the palm he still grinds against your face. The fact that you know more about him than he does you springs to mind. You know he’s a meticulous killer. He wouldn’t pull the trigger — not with the integrity of his pattern at stake. But it would hurt to get struck by the harsh edges, and he clearly doesn’t shy away from going for the head. 

When he finally relents, every movement is purposefully slow. You take your time sitting up, and dig your feet into the shells when he gets you standing. Anything to make more time. The smell of the water hits you first -- salty and full of pollution, smog and snow flurries whipping through the air. Even as an experienced New Yorker, the temperature makes tears flee down your face. A row of white lamp posts beam from a boat dock, lined with rocking, massive fishing vessels. It stretches far down a path onto the foaming waterside, large waves rippling against posts and the shore. 

You struggle every step, pointy elbows and feet now that the drugs thins out in your blood. Eventually the battle is enough, and by the time the wood planks are the only thing that divides you from sub-temperature water, he scoops you around the center and tosses you over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. He’s got brute strength from a job hauling meat and fish, and it dawns on you from the height he carries you at that this fight you’re going to have to put up to fend him off will cost you. 

Near the end of the dock, on a four corner plank, a large, white fishing boat creaks in the night. There’s only one lamppost here, but it reflects against the name of the ship: Seas the Day. If it wasn’t for the life and death pressure of the situation, you’d make a comment on the terrible pun. But there were more things at stake, and your tongue has gotten you in trouble before.

Once aboard, he kicks the cargo hold door with a thick, large boot, and quite literally tosses you inside. There’s a couple stairs you deck when you hit the floors, sprawling across without being able to catch yourself. You know you form new ugly bruises at the elbows and knees, groaning at the flare of pain that comes from every wounded limb. The floor is sticky with fish guts and salt water, staining your clothes.

It takes a moment to focus, but he flips on a switch, lighting a single bulb above you. It rocks back and forth, and your attention would have stayed on the way it swings --

\-- if it wasn’t for the tiny, soft whimper from somewhere behind you. 

He’s walking down the stairs leisurely, shedding his coat, but you don’t care anymore. It’s not the two of you here; you feel horrified when a pair of shaking, warm brown eyes meet yours from across the room.

Another girl. 

She’s young. Young enough that your breath catches in your throat. She’s shivering from the harsh winter, in nothing else but a huge, stained, ripped Guy Harvey t-shirt, clutching her bones. She’s got long, brown hair, but it’s in knots in every direction — like she’s been here for days. Forgotten.

“You’re a sick fucking bastard,” you roll onto your stomach, hearing his feet approach, “who is this? What have you done?”

“What, did you think you were special?” The rubber of his boot steps on the small spot of your back when you try to bolt, pinning you to the glued down tile. Your stomach drops at the smell as he applies pressure, back cracking, forcing you into the teetering ground. “I told you — you weren’t on my agenda. Not really my type, to be honest. And I had other arrangements. But then you had to come in all alone, your little cop buddy nowhere in sight. It was easy. You just make it easy.”

“You screwed up.” You try to rise, but it’s no use. He just digs a heel in, forcing garbled, painful noises from your throat. You look at the girl, who doesn’t move a muscle, and she’s got wide, doe eyes and a smattering of freckles. You worry she’s underage. Or that he’s hurt her already; the joints of her hands are also taped so tight her knuckles lack color. Her feet have zip ties. “They know -- ow, _fuck_ \-- stop, _please_ \-- they know I’m gone -- and when he figures it out, you’re going -- to wish you hadn’t been born.”

Your skin can barely take it through the material. 

“I doubt it. _My_ cellphone is somewhere back at the bar, and yours will lead them straight to where I tossed it across the bridge on the way here. It’ll take some time to track us down, but by then, the two of you won’t have much to say.”

“Please.” Two sets of eyes dart to the girl, who lifts her chin and speaks for the first time from a trembling mouth. “Just let me go —”

“Zip it.” He snarls, and she buries her face in her hands. “Wait your turn.”

The feeling on your back finally eases, so in a dash, you take to your knees and try to get on two feet. The adrenaline spikes deep in your core. But he’s faster and not injured, crouching to your height and lunging to face you back towards the ceiling in a tumble that lands you beneath him. He’s a bull, all brawn and sweaty skin regardless of the weather, so you brandish the claws your nails make against his skin, a few good strikes in the fumble, even when he retrieves a swiss knife from the pockets of his jeans. It’s rusty and crusted, creaking when it flips open. 

The young girl backs herself in a corner at the sight of it. You can’t imagine it bodes for anything well, but in spite of your pulsing fear, your face levels. He could cut you limb from limb, but you’d started this fight by walking into _Gianni’s_. The ghost in your head had warned you as much, right before you’d walked through the front door. 

Now you’d battle it out. 

He severs the sleeves of your jacket off regardless of how you squirm and wiggle. The blade knicks you every so often, welting more tears into your eyes, but when the tan material and the shirt underneath is in a strewn pile, your left shaking in your bra, fist fighting every chance you get. You land one hard knock with your elbow, but he goes for the face and gets the skin of your hands with the blade instead. You yowl in the morning. 

He goes for your bra too, but a sudden ringing stops everyone from making another move. It comes from a black, untouched duffle bag somewhere beneath where the young girl sits. The cell tone is old, like a Nokia or something store bought and cheap — nothing fancy. You and the man who holds you down share a look as it goes to voicemail; forgotten. 

But then it rings _again_. 

He moves off of you slowly, only having to crawl a foot or two to reach for the bag. You go to make a move, but he grabs the duffle like planned and slams the knife inches from your head — a warning shot, as it squeals against metal. You wait again, eyes darting as he flips the silver cell open, pressing it to his ear. 

“Hello?”

Besides the crash of waves, the sound of loud speaking muffles the atmosphere. You take a second to look at the girl, who stares back at you. She cries freely, and you want to tell her it’ll be okay without saying a word, but he grabs the cheeks of your face with his free hand, forcing you to look at him instead. 

“I’m at my girlfriend’s apartment.” He lies. “Is something wrong?”

More talking. You consider screaming, belting out anything to alert you’re here and in trouble, but he must see the choice in your eyes. The blade unhinges from the floor and presses to the pulse point at your neck, feeling it jump against the cool edge. You know he’s in his element now; he’d do it on the call just for the sick kick. So you hold your tongue. 

“I can be there an hour, if it’s so important.” Chris tilts his head. “Though I’m not sure what the police would want to talk to me about, sir.”

He says a few “yes”s and “no”s, one “mhm” and a “see you soon” before he snaps it shut. You breathe out a harsh line of air when he moves off your neckline. 

“Well. It would seem the NYPD would like to talk to me and my manager. Only took them since October.” He chuckles, with a big smile, and to your disgust, he grabs a handful of your freezing chest. “Our play date is going to have to wait. I have an errand to run. Something to get rid of.”

“I hope you choke and die.” You say it so confidently that it earns you a slap across the right cheek, stinging and startling, almost hard enough that you see spots. While you recover, he’s pulling out a small, orange bottle from the dark bag that rattles full of narcotics. 

“You talk too much, anyone ever tell you that?” You know nothing but the fight now, teeth like a gate as he tries to force your mouth open. Eventually you have to pry up or he’ll shatter your jaw, and a pair of small white pills hit the back of your tongue. One breath later and they’re down.

It works quick, as he gets off you to collect things strewn around the rocking deck. You don’t try to run; even if the pills weren’t dissolving on an empty stomach, minutes ticking by as you start to buzz, he was planning on _leaving_ . The opportunity for escape would present itself, and if not, you’d _make_ one. 

At some point you’re scooped off the floor under the armpits and dragged to a rectangular, white shrimp cooler. It’s open, frosting over with ice and misuse, and empty. You’re dropped inside it without any warning, and you try to get up, but there’s a cry across the room, and another body is plopped on top of yours.

“Wait!” You can’t sit up like this, and the girl doesn’t help, lid slapping shut above you. It conceals the two of you in pure darkness, with a lack of clean oxygen to make it so much worse. You can hear a metal lock click. Soft breathing next to your head. 

And then silence. 

“Are . . . are you okay?” You ask firstly, because there was nothing else to do right now, and the medication was fuzzing your brain. She barely moves on top of you, weighing 100 pounds soaking wet, weak from malnourishment and frozen skin and bones. 

“I want to go home.” She sniffles. You feel her hot tears stream down your neck, and it wounds deep. She was traumatized. How long had she been here? It takes some prompting, but you’re able to get your bound arms around her brittle shoulders. You yourself lose body heat by the second, with the added ice from the cooler searing exposed skin. But together you could stay warm. Together you could _run._

“What’s your name?” It’s a whisper as you start to fade out. Running would come soon. You just needed a minute.

“Mimi.” She answers. 

“We’re . . . we’re going to be okay, Mimi.”

You can’t remember what she says. You simply hold her as you sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> jesus 15 pages later. wowza. a double cliffhanger. god i hate this guy. BUT i love mimi we must protect her at ALL COSTS she's destined for GREAT THINGS
> 
> it is with a HEAVY heart i have to report that i will probably not post for another week or two. i found out a couple days ago i have to put my dog to rest, so we're already in mourning, and i know it'll be worse when she's gone. due to the fact that i already had this chapter just about done, i'm posting because it can't keep rereading it in my drafts for much longer ... but let the record show i will be back! my attachment to this fic is absurd but in light of this bad news i have good news:
> 
> this fic is getting a sequel!!!!! with only 3 chapters left here i can't say much about it yet with so much DRAMA happening right now, but it'll probably be a little bit shorter and explore a different side to our favorite readerchan x our favorite italian boyfriend ooo hoo hoooo!!! i've already written the groundwork for it, AND my barba x intern fic, so i'm just really happy to settle into this fandom for a while. i like it here. i'll bring snacks.
> 
> i've exposed myself on tumblr so if u like random posts of sonny carisi's face and fic updates check out https://velociraptoric.tumblr.com/ !!!
> 
> as always, i hope you enjoyed !! the next chapter has the svu violins popping off all over ...... lol anyone else get supercharged when u hear it bc u know some shits about to go down on screen?
> 
> love,  
> bagels

**Author's Note:**

> ta ta for now!


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